


The Game of God

by seperis



Series: Down to Agincourt [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-04-15 04:27:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 535,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4592838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can't win a war for humanity by sacrificing all of your own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Summary taken from a comment by Infie.  
> Beta by nrrrdygrrrl and obscureraison, with advice from Tkodami and MollyC  
> Art by nrrrdygrrrl and tkodami  
> Series title and summary taken from [Harry Takes the Field](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2112627) by bratfarrar.  
> TKodami created an incredible art series as well: [Scenes from Down to Agincourt](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2560289). Hightly recommended and hilarious both.  
> Spoilers: Seasons Five, Six, and Seven. Set after the events in 5.4 The End.  
> Character Directory: [Full List of Characters Through Day 154](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1CiZHgnpzain4qUfNcyjvl-Mv079C6kLcg8eAGKgSW08/edit?usp=sharing) at Google Docs.  
>   
> Further Notes:  
> 1.) Book IV was experimental from the moment I started writing it two and a half years ago; I wanted to try new things, it happens, and then you wake up and realize people are going to read it and wonder why you thought it was a good idea. In my defense, one, when I started working on it, I never expected to post this series so I could go crazy with plot, and two, when I started posting this series, my expectations of readership were--well, not high, this is a _really long series_ , and if anyone got this far, I figured it'd be in the spirit of completionism, like that author you loved when you were fourteen and still to this day buy their books even though they're terrible and God, why.  
> 2.) There will be at least two skips in weekly posting, as a.) since I finished posting Book III, I got a promotion (awesome) leading to b.) we had two major delays in our release schedule already and with more money and a cooler title comes having to deal with it (less awesome). I'll give warning in author notes when that will happen, since I'll get about as much warning as you will.  
> 3.) The number of chapters is almost arbitrary; I don't like three of my cuts but I haven't thought of anything better yet, so assume +/- 2.

_\--Day 150--_

Running down the dusty alley between the cabins, Dean darts onto the first sagging porch he sees, almost stumbling when a rotten board crumbles beneath his boot, and hits the door with his shoulder hard enough to feel it in his teeth.

Getting his balance, he pounds on the door. "Open up!" he shouts, trying to remember what time it is; it's night, thanks, he got that part, but how many hours since dusk, he can't remember. "We don't time for this, open the fucking door already! They're almost ready!"

Through no light squeezes through narrow, shattered window, cardboard and tape doing fuck-all to seal the cracks, he fucking doubts no one's home. "Come on!" he yells, rubbing a clean spot in the top corner and peering inside. The shapes of bodies are clear enough, frozen like rabbits in the shine of headlights, and it takes everything in him not to punch through the remains of the goddamn glass.

"Cowards," he spits, jumping off the edge of the porch and scanning each cabin on his way, dust kicked up with every step. They're all the same; lights out, all's silent on the western front, everyone's home, and no one's fucking sleeping tonight. Hiding like rats and hoping what they don't see and pretend didn't happen will buy them safety with two dead bodies come morning.

"Fuck all of you," he says, pulling his gun and starting up toward the cabin; he'll take care of this shit himself, one bullet at a time. 

He's halfway there when the sound of gunfire shatters the quiet, and he breaks into a dead run, but he already knows he was too late again. Shadows rise from the bleak remains of shrubbery around the cabn, faceless bodies with mocking smiles, but they vanish before he can get a shot off, and he can't take the time anyway, because maybe, maybe--

He nearly falls on the steps, bursting through the beads in a headlong stumble and hits the floor on his knees, but the shock of pain's forgotten at the sight of Vera slumped face-down over the coffee table, hair dipped into an electric red puddle forming around what remains of her head; she was dead before she even realized she was shot.

"Cas." Getting to his feet, he searches the room frantically, looking for a blood trail or maybe he's going after them now, maybe this time he-- 

\--this time, he's slumped against the wall, chest riddled with bullets and sightless eyes staring into Dean's; there's not even enough left for accusation-- _where were you, why weren't you here, why did you let them do this_. Scrambling over the blood-streaked floor, Dean collapses into the warm pool of blood, reaching to touch skin already gone cold.

No one will need to repair the drywall tonight; just burn the goddamn cabin down and say it was an accident if Dean ever happens to fucking notice. Not like anyone will say it happened any other goddamn way.

"I'm sorry," Dean tells him hoarsely, watching his fingers leave bloody smears on skin the color of paper. "I didn't know, I swear. When I told you--I didn't know. Please, Cas, _please_ …." 

Cas doesn't answer; you can't get absolution when there's no one alive to give it.

* * *

He blinks up at the shadowed ceiling above him, sitting up and almost welcoming the hit of vertigo. Since the fever, waking up has a routine he follows as reflexively as he breathes, and he's never been more grateful for it than after nights like this. Taking a deep breath, he grounds himself in his body, feeling the weight of it, tracking each stuttered breath and beat of his heart until he can feel them begin to even out. The mattress shifts beneath him in a comforting barely audible squeal, blankets pooled in his lap, and he takes in the four walls of the room around him and the quiet night outside with a barely repressed sigh, almost able to pretend he can't still taste the ghosts of gunpowder and blood that don't exist.

An unexpected shift of the bed abruptly reminds him there's a new addition, and by the way, he's got about three seconds before.… "Dean?"

Make that two: it can be really inconvenient when your…Cas _literally_ wakes up when you do, because spoils of war and magic, whatever. Great for fever-related nightmares and really wanting a glass of water at three am and can't be fucked to get it yourself (and you're attached to a heart monitor and an IV, also a problem), but not so much now, especially when the delay isn't 'time it takes to get up, come to the door, knock, wait three seconds (maybe), then come in' but 'roll over' and even that's optional.

Looking down at the sleepy blue eyes regarding him worriedly from behind a tangled mass of bangs, Dean revises it to 'inconvenient after dreams of double homicide but otherwise not so bad'. 

"I'm fine," he says belatedly as Cas lazily pushes himself up on one elbow. One eyebrow raises in slow, semi-sarcastic query: one part, are you okay, two parts, really, what terribly unconvincing excuse will you use this time and by the way, I only pretended to believe you all those times in the past you woke up in a cold sweat and said it was indigestion, especially considering some of those times you were on IV or canned sodium- and fat-free chicken broth. 

"Give me a minute." Cas's eyebrow achieves maximum altitude just as he shoves back the blankets and slides out of bed. He doesn't need to look back to know Cas is performing 'patience and concern in the face of Dean's ridiculous intractability' because this is Cas and that's exactly the words he'd use for that expression.

Flipping on the bathroom light, he takes care of important toilet business first before going to the sink to wash his hands and does his routine 'not looking up', 'don't be stupid, it's just fucking mirror', 'seriously, how long can you wash your hands in avoidance', 'fuck you I'm done', to stare into his own eyes grimly and pretend he's not surprised or relieved to see a person and not a grinning corpse every goddamn time, because he's over that bullshit.

Shaking himself--Christ, get the fuck over yourself already--he flips the light off and veers straight for the bedroom door. "Be right back."

* * *

Dean's most of the way through replacing the pipes underneath the kitchen sink by the yellow light of the portable bulb clamped just above his head before he finally gives up. Fighting down a sigh, he lifts his head to see Cas slumped on the floor a few feet away, leaning against the kitchen table with a blanket draped over his shoulders, socked feet, and bedhead like the end of the world (which in no way is a bad look for him), watching Dean work like he's trying and failing to imagine anything that could possibly be more boring.

Boring, maybe, but he's got a goal to have drinkable water come out of the faucets instead of having to either a.) boil it first or b.) go get refills from the mess. Camp wide water treatment is definitely on the agenda (it's like fifth on the List) but until then, the home version is going to have to suffice, and the first step is getting new pipes installed.

(He also has all their weapons clean, the storm door installed, and the weather-stripping on the rest of the cabin done. All that's left is to start the new addition and it's not like he wouldn't do it except he's not sure how. And they don't have any lumber, which Nate assured him is pretty key to the entire building things experience.)

Screwing the new tailpipe into place, he peers at Cas between his upraised knees. "Shitty dream, happy?"

"That's reassuring," Cas says blandly, chin resting on his folded arms. "I was worried that your bladder was trying to kill you and you awakened just in the nick of time to save your excretory system from annihilation. Which naturally led to home repair, as it's known to do."

He used to think sarcasm was all clever one-liners and irony with expertly timed delivery, but Cas introduced him to the joys of the surrealist narrative form. After some thought, he put that particular development down to a combination of 'exploring more variety in his efforts at being a dick', 'human life was just that goddamn boring he literally had nothing better to do', and 'three quarters of any given audience would have no idea what was happening and that's hilarious'. 

"It was just--same old, same old," he says truthfully, and that's the hell of it. Since he got the details of what happened that night at Cas's cabin, it's joined the regular rotation with monotonous regularity. Even horror can becoming boring--he knows, ask him--but this one apparently saw that coming and likes to mix it up.

It always starts the same: running between cabins trying to get help to stop the team leaders, thinking at first they don't know before realizing they do, they all do, they knew before Cas and Vera did, but no one told them, no one told Dean, and they never would. 

It's always too late by then; he starts toward the cabin, there's gunfire, and inside he finds them dead in all the ways you can from an endless round of bullets. Never once--even by accident--was Cas alive, was Vera alive, when he got there, so he could at least apologize and tell them goodbye.

"Could you hand me the--" The wrench is slapped into his left palm before he finishes the question. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." There's a pause, mostly for drama, Dean suspects, and is halfway through tightening the join when he gets confirmation. "So when you say 'same old, same old', does that refer to the concept of 'nightmare' in general, or as in the same one occurring during the last four nights?" 

He grimaces and just avoids fucking up the new tailpipes. "Both." 

Weirdly enough, his biggest issue at this moment isn't how very little he wants to talk about his less than restful nights as policy, because that policy has very little application when it comes to Cas. There's nothing he can tell Cas that would get a reaction stronger than 'not entirely expected' (he's tested this), because the job requirements of an angel of the Lord aren't exactly light on unthinkable acts of horror. (Cas's assessment of the similarities between angels and demons wasn't a surprise, but that didn't make it any less a shock to hear it.) There is a difference, though, and Dean thinks there's something deeply fucked up in that it wasn't the Host that illustrated that, but Cas while mortal on earth.

Cas doesn't regret executing Luke any more than agreeing to send Debra on patrol that day or killing the possessed members of Ichabod's patrol, and guilt doesn't even make an appearance (Cas's surprise at the very idea of it was pretty telling). Regret for Cas is in the necessity of the act, not the act itself, and even that much has very sharp limits. 

On the surface it sounds simple (and even a little enviable, to be honest), but Chuck's reminder of the difference between angels and humans was spot-on. Dean knows enough about angels now to discard 'angels be robots' as explanation and is honest enough to admit it. If he was guessing (and he is), 'morals' and 'ethics' and even 'being good' are the human-approved, dumbed-down version of a vastly sophisticated (and kind of terrifying) concept of 'justice' in which 'vengeance' and 'mercy' are interchangeable, mandatory, and irrelevant at once. It's not that angels can't fuck up (let him count the ways, though it might take a while), but he'd be very surprised if the error rate was higher than 'zero' when it came to actions taken in the name of justice itself. (It's everything else they tend to fail at, and _how_.)

If he ever needed proof, it was watching Cas with Alison the first time they met, the easy way Cas went from surly to all the judgement in the world. When she opened her mind to him, he evaluated her, judging her against a standard that took an entire life lived into account, the disparity between intentions professed and the actions taken in their name. The road to Hell has never been paved with anything but lies, and the most dangerous are the ones you tell yourself to justify what you do. 

(Dean gets this isn't a guarantee--Cas's judgment was based on Alison as she was and is, the future unknown territory, free fucking will in action--but the intersection of infinite being and mortal means Cas's personal feelings are both separate and not the kind of thing he bothers to hide. He might have tolerated Alison's existence (hostilely, probably with a lot of creepy staring and not just because that's fun), but no way would he have liked her if he'd sensed anything that didn't fit that standard. He sure as hell wouldn't have started teaching her how to use her abilities with what Dean's suspects is very un-Host-like enthusiasm.)

However--and he can't believe he's thinking this--it's one thing to talk to Cas the former angel about vague not-memories of doing time on (or with) the rack in all its bloody horror. Sure, it's unsettling as fuck when he stops to think about how reassuring it is that the person who both saw in him action and has listened to him describe some of the Pit's Greatest Hits (all his, by the way) is also of his own free will sleeping with him (literally and, soon, figuratively, too, please God), but that just means he doesn't think about it if he can help it. It's another thing entirely to explain how you spend your nights witnessing your partner's and his best friend's brutal assassination in various possible scenarios in vivid detail down to number and location of wounds and the exact color of the coagulating blood.

This is Relationships 101 shit (see, Sam, he's got the basics down fine), Chitaqua Edition: there are things you just don't dump on your significant other. There may be circumstances in which this kind of thing should be shared, but he can't think of any unless they run into a dreamwalker or something who can manifest dreams into reality, in which case yeah, a heads-up would probably be appreciated by all.

(And they'd have a lot more to worry about than the questionable contents of Dean's dream sequences at that point. There's fucking Phil's, for example (getting married to Cas in a church in June while miraculously pregnant with Nephilim triplets over Dean's dead body). And killing the dreamwalker, of course. (Whether Phil survives that shit's up in the air.))

Then there's the timing: it's not like it's a mystery to Dean why he's repeat-one on Massacre Night at Chitaqua (the Remix Edition). There's a giant party at Ichabod tonight and everyone's invited, in a town where Cas told an entire fucking room of people exactly what he was and therefore the world (define 'world' as 'people who live in Ichabod and so will definitely be there tonight', which is all he cares about right now). Because Dean told him people change, Alison thinks they're better than they think they are, history doesn't repeat ever, and it's not like groups of people haven't decided to dispose of the entire 'fear of the unknown' issue by attempted murder of the unknown in question before.

(And not like Cas is the first almost-victim of that shit, but hey, that's history and repeat ad-fucking-infinitum. He shouldn't have needed Vera that day to spell out exactly what she, Amanda, and Sean have dealt with in various forms all their lives and why she had zero reason to trust him on principle. That's survival.)

Even if Cas hadn't indulged in a fit of unexpected idealism on humanity's relative not-shittiness (and God, he'll never tell Cas how much he wishes he hadn't, because he's not that kind of dick), it's still a whole new world of people (define 'world' as 'everyone who will be coming to Ichabod tonight') meeting Cas, some for the very first time either at the party or at the Alliance meeting that will be his and Dean's first formal introduction as Chitaqua's leaders. Dean's memories of that dinner party at Alison's are both vivid and detailed, and the last couple of days have leveled that shit up to critical. While he buys not at all Cas's 'used to it and totally not a problem' bullshit, he for one will admit right now he's a.) not used to it, b.) never will be, and c.) it's a goddamn fucking problem.

He can just see the suggestion of a frown and waits for it; Cas doesn't know (or ever need to know, Christ) the exact nature of the content in question, but it's not like he can't do the math on timing himself. That part, he can't hide so why even try, but he's curious if Cas will come to the obvious conclusion or manage, against all odds, to think it couldn't possibly be about him. Because he can take care of himself, it doesn't bother him, it's not everyone, no one has expressed any verbal desire to kill him (recently), and also, reasons, not necessarily in that order because variety and because Cas.

Looking at him solemnly from behind tangled bangs, Cas tilts his head. "If someone hurts my feelings tonight, will you beat them up for me? If I ask, I should say."

Or he'll say that. "Dude, you don't have to ask," he objects, grinning up at the bottom of the sink before sharing it with Cas. "But I'll wait until you do, okay?"

Cas rolls his eyes, readjusting his slump for maximum comfort. "So noted." 

"Anytime." He checks the P-traps again while he waits, but the silence continues beyond dramatic timing and is approaching--huh. "So that's it?"

"What?" Cas asks, managing to sound like he's about five seconds from expiring from sheer boredom.

"No speech telling me how it's fine, doesn't bother you, it's not _all_ people, they get used to it, not a big deal, and you're really armed and don't need anyone to protect you?" Sliding the pliers between his teeth, he turns the light to check for anything he might have missed (like say, a pipe emptying onto the floor), and finds what may or may not be loose couplings around the new P-trap and retrieves the pliers. "Well?"

"Would it reassure you this time, unlike every other time I've explained this?" 

"Never stopped you before." Because it's true. "Ever. About anything, actually, not just this." Then something else occurs to him as he verifies the couplings are secure. "Why aren't you telling me all about the dangers of sleep-deprivation or how delicate my health is and that you knew me getting fevers is just how I fuck with you when I'm bored?"

A glance at Cas shows him staring at the refrigerator like it said King Arthur was just a myth (which reminds him to check on Evan before they leave; no way he could have seen 'joke about Merlin' becoming 'Patrol's Half Hour Lecture on Why Malory Should Have Been Smited At Birth'). "Cas?"

"I forgot to mention there have been two new requests for changes in living arrangements today," Cas says suddenly. "All of them have already spoken to Joseph and agreed to the three month waiting period he recommends for those who wish to begin cohabitation with their significant others, but…."

"Logistics." It didn't take him long to work out why cabin assignments had to be handled officially and why Cas created an actual goddamn process to do it. "So that's why you were looking at your spreadsheet like it betrayed you before dinner."

Cas makes a face; yeah, even with three months warning, that's gonna be a lot of moving people around.

"That brings my total pending requests to four. Fortunately, the cabins we're repairing for the new recruits should be complete well before then, so I'll have more options."

"Kat and Andy still sulking?" he asks, hearing the tired thread in his own voice that has nothing to do with the late night. "They get the delay isn't to destroy their love here, right? We had reasons."

"I'm sure they do," Cas says with the same tired edge; even sarcasm doesn't work on them anymore. There's nothing about feeling like you're the generic evil villain against true love in their great romance that doesn't grate, and worse, Kat and Andy seem to legit believe it, no matter the existence of 'facts'. Christ: they need _hobbies_. He's gonna give them some real soon now.

"So who was added--wait, let me guess: one was Sid and Jane, right?" He grins in satisfaction at Cas's surprise. "They had the look at the party. What do you think?"

Cas raises an eyebrow, 'what on earth gives you the impression I would care': whatever. 

"Professionally," Dean adds, because God help them if Cas has to actually admit--even to himself--he does actually maybe care just a tiny bit about _their own goddamn people_.

"Jane is an excellent influence, and Sidney benefits from her confidence and good sense," Cas says, then hesitates. "She says he's fun."

Dean almost drops the pliers. "What?"

"He's apparently funny," Cas continues, sounding baffled. "He plays guitar. And sings."

"Seriously?"

"He's very talented, it seems." Dean ponders how much weirder the world is now than it was five, six seconds ago. "While they're still in the preliminary stages of building a stable monogamous relationship, she feels that Sidney fulfills all the criteria for a permanent partner and expects that at their current rate of progress, they should be prepared for marriage within eight months."

He doesn't need to ask if Cas is quoting her; he is. "Huh."

"That was my reaction as well," Cas agrees. "Joseph confirmed she spoke to him regarding his feelings toward conducting a Christian wedding ceremony, and on his affirmation, requested Presbyterian or Episcopalian and gave him the necessary material for him to review."

"They're engaged?" 

"Not for another four months." Right, of course not. Too…early? "They're currently saving their winnings from gambling night to purchase rings from one of our trade partners, since apparently simply taking them from an empty house or requesting James look for them on a supply run isn't as meaningful."

Dean wonders how this conversation got here, but he's committed now. "Do our trade partners make rings?"

"Jane would very much appreciate if we found out. Titanium alloy or cold iron preferred, thrice forged. I've been requested to provide the correct protective sigils for the engravings, since she feels they should be more than decorative and symbolic of their union."

"What'd Sidney say during all this?" Though he thinks he can guess.

"'What she said.' That's literally all he said, while staring at her like he worried she might change her mind."

Dean nods; at least that part's not--whatever the hell just happened. "And the other request…?" A horrible idea crosses his mind: if it's Alicia and Kyle….

"Melanie and Liz came to see me today," Cas says. "They'd like to request a change in living arrangements for themselves and their other two partners."

"They've only been serious about a month, right? That's fast." Though considering Lisa, he can't talk there. "You talk to Joe?"

"Joseph spoke to me first by their request. He's very pleased by this development," Cas says, adding, "We had coffee while you were playing--"

"Practicing."

"--showing off your accuracy with a quarter of our standard arsenal on the practice field," Cas finishes in amusement. "Your accuracy was superior to everyone's, from what I understand. With either hand."

"I had this dick riding my ass every time we went to my range," Dean admits, grinning up at the sink. "It was get better or kill him, and I had to do the first to have any chance of pulling off the second. Impressed?" He glances at Cas, who shrugs, but he can tell he is, because hell yes he's that goddamn awesome. "So why'd they send Joe first?"

"Reassurance, I think. Joseph sees Melanie regularly and at their request has met with them all to offer them a neutral third-party when needed," Cas answers. "While it's possible they may change their minds in the next three months, he doubts it."

"Our camp counselor in action," Dean agrees. "What do you think?" 

"The closer the bond between team members, the greater their chances of survival in any given encounter," he answers obliquely. "In my experience, at least. The original model for training hunters weighed compatibility between individual members of the team equal to if not more important than their individual level of skill. At Alpha, Amy encouraged matching family members or those in strong relationships as often as possible. She used to say--she used to say there was no hell quite like knowing if you'd been there yourself, you might have been able to save someone you cared about."

Yeah, he gets that. "Who'd she lose?"

"Her first husband, her only brother, and her best friend," he answers quietly. "Soon after Amy graduated college and began hunting, Danielle was possessed by a demon and embarked on a course of spree killing, motivation unknown but presumed to be 'fun' in East Texas. Donovan and Castor tracked her down themselves, not sure that Amy would have the objectivity required if Danielle needed to be killed, but the exorcism they tried to perform apparently failed, reasons unclear. Amy arrived in time to save Danielle's daughter before completing a successful exorcism."

Dean wonders if he wants to know. "Did Danielle survive?" 

"She took Amy's gun and killed herself before Amy could stop her," he answers. "Danielle's parents, due to their age, agreed to Amy's request to adopt Catherine."

The hell of it is, even before the Apocalypse, he wouldn't have been surprised to hear that story from a hunter. "Yeah." He tries to think how to say this. "Okay, so--"

"You're wondering about the connection? Thank you, I thought it was just me," Cas says in relief. "Her explanation was--if you like someone and they're about to do something you know is stupid, you try to talk them out of it, but if you love them, you can also punch them in the face."

"Punch them in the face?"

"I assume she was being metaphorical," Cas offers to the air above the sink, like no one in this room has ever beaten up or knocked anyone else out for…reasons. "The point stands, however; it's preferable that team members be emotionally invested in each other." He brightens. "In this case, Melanie and her team also happen to be responsible for each other's orgasms, which can only be further motivation to survive any given encounter. I approve of that very much."

"Anything to raise the odds," Dean agrees after taking a moment to make sure his voice is steady. "Isn't Mel living in a one bedroom with Sarah and Kat? They're gonna need one of the cabins we're repairing. One of 'em has got to have at least two bedrooms."

"I don't think," Cas says slowly, like Dean missed this somehow, "that they are going to need separate bedrooms."

"No, they need one room per person so when they're fighting, everyone has somewhere to storm to," he argues, satisfied that coupling isn't going anywhere. "Doesn't have to be a bedroom, but there's gotta be space. Lifetime in motels, Cas: trust me on this one. Now," he adds casually, "let's get back to what's actually bothering you."

Cas sighs, shoulders slumping unhappily. "I talked to Jeremy this afternoon."

Without thinking, Dean starts to sit up and comes to an abrupt, teeth-jarring halt, head an inch from the bottom of the sink, newly installed pipes just level with his shoulder. Looking down, he takes in the hand on his chest that saved him from a humiliating home-repair related concussion and Cas crouching between his knees with an annoyed look. "Thanks."

"Lie back down before you break the pipes," Cas says irritably, flexing his fingers against Dean's t-shirt in unmistakable command. "Or break yourself, for that matter. Are you finished?"

Dean squints at the pipes dangerously close to his face. "Yeah, I think so."

"Good." A push puts him flat on his back, hands slide under his knees, and he's pulled out from under the sink in a single smooth movement. Blinking stupidly, he tries to convince himself that wasn't in any way hot, and neither is the sight of Cas kneeling between his legs. Superpowers aren't hot. It's the kitchen, for fuck's sake. This is _plumbing_. What the hell were they talking about again?

"Jeremy." He doesn't regret it at all when Cas retreats the half foot to the table to wrap himself up in his blanket or try to stop him because this is the fucking kitchen and...they're talking about Jeremy, right. Also, plumbing. Sitting up, he reaches back inside to flip the water valve before getting to his feet, looking for the stopper and setting it in the sink. "So that would be the important thing you and Vera needed to do this afternoon." He knew he recognized that vaguely squirrely thing Cas was doing after lunch.

"Vera told me that Jeremy wished to talk to me," Cas answers as Dean turns on the faucet. "Apparently, his ankle's been bothering him since they returned from Alpha and he wanted me to make sure it didn't inhibit his ability to throw his opponent through the nearest convenient wall."

Watching the sink fill, he reviews the last few days in the camp, which includes Jeremy, James, Mira, and Nate's impromptu game of tag (wait, no, it was tag no matter how Mira tried to make it sound nothing like what you do when a blizzard stops and cabin fever needs fixing, now). Just watching them was exhausting, and Jeremy showed no sign of a limp.

"So I'm guessing--call me crazy--that was just an excuse?" Turning off the water when the sink's three-quarters full, he takes a deep breath before pulling the drain and crouches to note in satisfaction the lack of water puddling under the sink or spraying from the pipes. Hell yeah he can do plumbing, and Joe's gonna be crying all the way to the refrigerator to get him that case of Joe Beer he just won.

"Of course."

"Why didn't he just come here if he wanted to talk to you?" Now that he's thinking about it, he can count the number of times on one hand that he's seen Jeremy other than in passing before he and Vera left for Alpha, and never outside of patrol meetings. Sure, that could be just luck of the draw, fever, recovery, the list is long, but on the other hand, no, it wasn't. Getting the caddy of homemade (campmade?) cleaning supplies, he sets them back inside with the stack of ragged but immaculate clean and sanitized clothes and sponges that Cas insists are the only appropriate material for cleaning any surface on which they make or eat food and closes the cabinet door before turning around, trying to look casual. "Because of me?"

"No, of course not. It's more a ritual," Cas explains, wrinkling his nose. "Generally, Jeremy would tell Vera that he felt some unspecified anxiety regarding his hunting skills that he felt I should be aware of, she would tell me, and I would arrange a meeting on the training field to evaluate the situation, usually late in the evening when it was guaranteed to be deserted."

He nods seriously; Christ, he'd give anything to know how the three of them managed to work that out without even once saying Jeremy needed attention, Cas needed to be clean and sober to give it, and privacy would be preferred. (By this he means how _Vera_ worked it out.) Before they went to Alpha, Vera told him about the secret weapon Jeremy didn't even know he had to get Cas's undivided attention: so, one, it really does work and two, Cas really _doesn't_ notice.

Dropping to the floor, he leans back against the sink door and stretches a leg absently, socked foot brushing Cas's thigh. "What would you do after you met him out there?"

"I'd verify there were no new injuries, ask about any problems with recent ones or check those still healing, assure there had been no unexpected problems during his last three shifts on watch or his most recent mission, and review him on the desired skillset," Cas answers, leaning his head on one hand. "I'm not conversant with small talk, and it seemed a waste of time when neither of us were at all interested in the weather."

"And he…."

"Answered each of my questions thoroughly, verified his continuing good health, asked me if teenagers were historically treated as if they were five years old simply because they didn't like canned lima beans and if they were always required to go to bed at an arbitrary time, described his last three times in combat in detail, and discussed Amanda's beauty and the impossibility of there being anyone like her in the world." 

Which is pretty much what Dean would have expected (especially the Amanda part, because teenager). 

Seeing his grin, Cas shrugs. "Vera said it was normal and healthy for an adolescent to entertain feelings of that nature and that his infatuation was comparable to a youthful crush on a celebrity. It combined a satisfactory lack of hope, as Amanda is a lesbian and almost two decades his senior, with a desire to please, so Amanda could by her responses instruct Jeremy on the appropriate way to treat women as well as any object of romantic interest. Amanda apparently enjoyed it a great deal, especially when it was her turn to do dishes and for additional help on laundry days."

Yeah, that's all true (especially the laundry thing), but also. "He was fifteen when he got here."

"And we lied about his actual age." Reaching down, he loops his fingers around Dean's ankle, thumb starting to circle absently around the hard knob of bone, and Dean firmly reminds himself to focus. "I have no objection to adolescents exploring their sexuality when they feel they're ready, but there was no one here of the appropriate age and experience level, and his emotional state did not in any way reassure Vera that he was capable of giving informed consent even if he'd shown interest. Vera consulted with Joseph as an objective third party and he agreed with her assessment. He meets with Jeremy regularly for joint activities not limited to marathon monopoly tournaments and instruction in the finer points of various games of chance so as to better evaluate Jeremy's state of mind in a non-threatening setting and assure no one will cheat him at poker."

God, he has _got_ to get back to this one day (soon), but…. "So why did he want to see you today?"

Cas closes his eyes. "Sex."

Dean's suddenly aware of a completely rational need to find out who in this camp propositioned a seventeen year old kid so he can go and explain all the ways that's a shitty idea and what kind of goddamn person does that. It might take a while and require more than one weapon on hand, but that's fine, it's hours until dawn and he'll be back in time for breakfast.

"Actually, the finer points of the social interactions that eventually lead to sex," Cas corrects himself while Dean considers his strategy, which he regretfully sets aside for later (no way to tell if he'll need it, so better be prepared). "More specifically, the various strategies to open conversation with an attractive girl, though he's open to the possibility of attraction to an individual regardless of sex or gender and plans to explore his options thoroughly."

Dean stares at him blankly as he translates that twice, just to be sure he heard that right. "He asked you to teach him how to _flirt_?" Cas nods, looking pained. "You're kidding."

"I'm not."

"What--" He clears his throat hastily: to have been a fly on the fucking training field fence. "So, what did you tell him?" 

"I've discovered," Cas says wisely, like someone having just figured out a universal truth, "that adolescents generally have no actual desire to hear adult opinions on any subject, even when they're the ones who requested advice. They also tend to flow between arbitrarily chosen subjects without warning. So I made appropriate noises of affirmation or negation when needed, and he was reassured, though of what, I'm still not entirely sure."

He starts to ask for more detail (verbatim, please) when context introduces itself on why a.) Jeremy would be interested in acquiring these kinds of skills right now, and b.) go to Cas to get them. "He's going to Ichabod tonight."

"He is," Cas agrees glumly, tipping his head back against the table leg to glare at the ceiling. "Where there will be a multitude of age and experience appropriate individuals for him to interact with, yes. From what I was able to ascertain, he's worried that no one will like him and he'll die a virgin who's never danced with anyone and will stand in the corner all night drinking water like a loser and be unable to show his face again anywhere ever and he might as well become a monk. Not in that order, I assume, but I didn't think asking for clarification would help."

O-kay, yeah. Here's the thing.

Dean is only vaguely conversant with how normal teenagers work, but these aren't normal teenagers. Jeremy and the kids living in Ichabod (and for that matter, probably every kid in the infected zone) are probably a lot closer to him in shared adolescent experiences (trauma, dead parents, rampant and justified paranoia, hunting demons, monsters everywhere, check your salt lines after you brush your teeth before going to bed, that kind of thing). He takes a minute to ponder how you just never know how useful a fucked-up childhood will be should you happen to end up in an alternate, Apocalyptic world and need to deal with teenagers.

So he knows that Jeremy is not in any way going to be standing alone against the wall like a loser, ever. Eighteen is the minimum age before limited assignment to patrol is permitted in Ichabod: daytime only, supervised, non-combat, their duties restricted to shadowing experienced patrol members, learning the procedures and responsibilities thoroughly. Despite the fact it's a dangerous fucking job (because of it), Dean didn't meet a single seventeen and below who didn't resent the fuck out of not being allowed to be out there kicking ass and he's including some five year olds with dangerous accuracy given wooden blocks and a target (him).

Jeremy's seventeen years old, physically fit, not hard to look at, and has (technically) been a regular, working member of Chitaqua since he was fifteen. In teenager, that means that he gets to go on adventures without adult supervision, fights monsters all the time, lives with a lot of very scary (hot) people, and gets lots and lots of weapons of his very own to use whenever he wants. 

(And in no way will it be a drawback that Jeremy was personally trained by the same person who trained Amanda (who is in fact a celebrity in Ichabod and the sum total of the wet dreams of everyone--and he does mean everyone--who's hit puberty and up). The guy who happens to be--wait for it--a fucking former angel of the Lord and Chitaqua's second in command.)

Jeremy's not getting out of Ichabod with his virginity (any virginity whatsoever) intact without a lot of effort and maybe some hiding behind a lot of locked doors (a vault might work, but no promises there), and that's not gonna happen because Dean remembers seventeen, and it's pretty much defined as 'no reasonable offer refused, no really, please'.

How to put this. "So--not saying you and Vera and Joe aren't doing a great job, but--"

"You'd like to talk to him," Cas finishes for him, and okay, that was fast. "I was hoping you'd offer, but in case you didn't, he's riding with us to Ichabod in the morning. As I'm driving and it will take several hours, I assumed sheer monotony would allow nature to take its course."

Yeah, he walked right into that one. "Thanks, Cas."

"You're welcome," Cas answers with a faint smile, squeezing his ankle. Dean struggles for some kind of reaction to being blatantly manipulated that isn't 'kind of likes it' and fails miserably. "I've been trying to think of an appropriate way to encourage your interaction since he and Vera returned from Alpha, and today's conversation gave me opportunity and subject matter without undue effort or awkwardness in manufacturing a believable situation."

Encourage your interaction, that's…. "You want me to get to know him?"

"Yes." Like it's obvious and Dean's just being difficult for the fuck of it. "Your illness and then his absence from Chitaqua inhibited the development of your relationship, but now that you're well and he's in the camp, there's no reason for it not to progress."

This can't be what it sounds like. "Or start, even."

"That as well." Cas straightens, looking at him earnestly. "He's extremely intelligent, competent, has an excellent work ethic, and is very mature for his chronological age." Dean nods, watching in fascination as Cas does something a lot like bracing himself. "However, he's given to a certain amount of age-appropriate emotional instability," moody, Dean interprets, "and on occasion indulges in rather melodramatic periods of brooding over perceived wrongs," and sulks like it's his job, got it, "such as feeling he's being manipulated or unnecessarily restricted in his actions by adults. Which is a perfectly reasonable response," Cas adds, looking baffled. "Not to mention entertaining to observe, but Vera says it's very annoying and not to be tolerated and laughing doesn't help, and I wasn't sure if you would share her opinion."

"So he's a teenager."

"According to Vera, very much so." Cas searches his face hopefully, and Dean's chest inexplicably tightens at the realization that this actually _is_ exactly what it sounds like. "I think you'll enjoy his company a great deal once you get to know him."

Christ. "I'm looking forward to it." 

(He's not going to think about what he'll do if Jeremy doesn't like _him_. He's already committed to several hours in a confined space and what he's pretty sure is going to be a very weird conversation about flirting, sex, relationships, and different cultures' approaches to those three things, and what he doesn't need right now is more pressure.)

"However, I wasn't being untruthful regarding Vera and I needing to do something important," Cas says reluctantly, and Dean has all the warning he needs by the way Cas's fingers tighten around his ankle before absently stroking up beneath the frayed hem of his sweatpants. "After I talked to Jeremy, she asked me if perhaps Jeremy would be a good addition to Kamal's team in Ichabod." 

And talk about a tactical exercise: not bad, Vera. Thinking about it, he thinks he can guess the reasons--kids his own age, nice place, good food, a town, the infected-zone equivalent of a normal life--and honestly, it's not a bad idea. Vera probably had 'em ready for deployment before Cas even got to drink the coffee she definitely had ready for this very special conversation. 

"And?"

"We both agreed it's a terrible idea that can only end in tragedy but we have yet to articulate a reason why," Cas answers in a rush, sounding frustrated. "We both tried, but Vera has only recently acquired several books on child psychology from Joseph, and while she's found some very promising material, she feels more research is required to confirm that our feelings on the subject are the obviously correct ones."

He swallows frantically: so not the time, but God. "Right."

"However, he's nine months from his eighteenth birthday, and so his choice should be the deciding factor," Cas adds resentfully, which on a guess is a quote from Joe and hey, so that's why Vera was glaring at Joe at the meeting this morning before Evan, Merlin, and thirty minutes of their lives they're never getting back (including learning Iceland was part of King Arthur's empire. Iceland). "Under the circumstances, I think it would be best for you to discover--if you can--what Jeremy would prefer after visiting Ichabod and has had sufficient time to consider his options. While ideally he will hate the town and all those within it, I don't think we can count on that."

Don't laugh, don't laugh, _don't laugh_. "Yeah, no problem."

Cas sighs, giving Dean a ghost of a scowl. "Are you finished with your insomnia-fueled home repair? It's cold and I don't think there's anything left for you to either repair or clean in the cabin."

"You know," Dean starts, "you don't have to keep me company every night."

"If I wanted to sleep alone, I'd still be on the couch," Cas answers, tugging the blanket up enough to stand without stepping on the trailing edge before extending a hand. "Since I'm not, it can be inferred I don't. As you're in here and therefore I'm awake, I might as well be awake where you are."

Logic, Cas-style. Taking his hand, he lets Cas pull him to his feet and follows him back into the dark bedroom, the thick rug James' team picked up during his totally just a cold a comfortable cushion against the freezing floor. 

On a glance, nothing's really changed since the room's number of permanent occupants increased from one to two: same shitty mattress and repaired dresser and single worn end table and lamp, same weapon-filled closet-arsenal and AK-47 laundry box, and both their clothes have always been in here. Cas doesn't have _things_ , even on the bare-minimum level that he and Sam did; no watch or keys on the bedside table, no weird keepsakes or pictures, no old receipts or spare change. Sure, some of that isn't applicable (for that matter, Dean's broken watch is still stuck in the closet somewhere); some of it is Cas's developing powers of organization (keys are hung on a hook by the door; books go in the utility-library; weapons in the closet-arsenal); but a lot probably has to do with Cas being an angel and learning people from Dean goddamn Winchester, life lived from a duffle bag packed in ten minutes or less before you're gone. And in Cas's case: a series of boxes, _Encyclopedia Brittanica_ (volumes four, ten, sixteen, nineteen, and twenty-one), and an assortment of board games (not random, assumed stripping-friendly, Jesus Christ) in the utility-library-closet.

Cas's boots neatly pushed against the wall between the dresser and the bed, the nine-millimeter under the mattress at the head of the bed and knife tucked neatly between the pillow and the headboard (boot knife stays in his boot): those come standard. That's what Cas carries on his body from the moment he leaves the shower in the morning (sometimes noon and afternoon as well) until he goes to bed, that follow him wherever he sleeps: here, in Ichabod, probably in the goddamn field.

On a glance, nothing's really changed, but that's because this is Cas, and he's a goddamn _freak_.

The thick, heavy woolen socks Cas has worn every night since the temperature dropped appeared the very next day, green-grey wool peering out warily from the shadowy back corner when he opened the drawer of the bedside table. Emerging from the bathroom that night with freshly brushed teeth, he noted the appearance of two of the blankets from the couch folded discretely at the foot of the bed without commentary. The next morning, for no particular reason, Dean checked under the bed for dustbunnies (should anyone ask) and verified the presence of a single flat pillow set on top of two extra blankets pushed against the wall. 

For four days, he watched in fascination as pencils, pens, jump drives, and paper reports materialized on the dresser in ones and twos before they vanished, replaced by the pencil box that holds all of Cas's immediate work-related needs and another for spare drives, both stacked on two sketchpads, a folder, and three notebook, one half-filled. The dresser was reorganized after the last laundry day two days ago--yeah, Cas does that for fun--but the vague division between his clothes and Cas's (which honestly was more theory than anything) is gone for good, replaced by military-neat rows of mutually-owned balled socks, quartered boxers, and boxer-briefs in the top drawer, folded long-sleeve shirts and jeans in the second and third, thermals and flannels in the fourth, sweaters in the bottom (for someone taught Cas to fold like they did serious time at Abercrombie and Finch, the poor bastards).

Most tellingly--and he does appreciate the significance--his own personal weapons were integrated into the closet-arsenal so smoothly even he was startled. Over the course of a day, one of the shelves was removed (when, no idea) almost immediately followed by two boxes vanishing into the ether (utility library?), some not at all random migration of Cas's weapons to the left onto mysteriously appearing pegs, and before dinner, Dean's materialized almost as if by magic, guns and knives slotting onto the pegs like they've always been there and he just didn't notice.

Finally--he was waiting for this--tonight, Cas shut down his laptop and casually tucked it under his arm and (casually) carried it into the bedroom to set it (casually) on the dresser by the pens and sketchbooks. Luckily, all that casualness gave Dean enough warning to pretend to be really into dental hygiene in the bathroom so Cas could enjoy himself surveying his new domain.

For the ways of Cas aren't always mysterious; sometimes, they're just Cas treating moving into their bedroom like he's conquering an undiscovered country, methodically and unobtrusively marking each piece of newly-claimed territory to avoid the attention of the natives before acquisition is complete and they realize they're under his benevolent rule. Dean would comment on the feelings of the natives in question (they know, they like it, what the hell?), but then Cas might notice what he's doing and stop, and he kind of want to see this through. Sure, this might end with waking up to Cas tattooing his true name on his ass for territorial purposes, but it's not like he didn't know what he was getting into here.

Casually scanning the room on his way to the bed for any further efforts at surreptitious colonization, he notes the subtle outline of two giant tackleboxes of mapmaking supplies that wandered out of the utility library earlier today to tuck themselves unobtrusively into the corner near the window. Fighting back a satisfied grin, he ushers Cas into bed before climbing in behind him, straightening the mess of sheets and blankets (and waiting for Cas to patiently spread the blanket he was using over the top) so as to conserve heat, which is actually pretty much eighty percent of what they do in bed. 

Apparently the universe (Cas) has decided Dean has to live adolescence over again, and not even his own, but someone else's, someone who never got laid and only got limited feeling-up privileges when at least two layers of clothing were present (and sometimes, four). If there's any consolation in this, it's that Cas has to deal with it, too, but it's not much, since Cas seems unnaturally (read: _what?_ ) okay with all the sex neither of them are having. Which yeah, he was okay with not having it before, sure, but now they _could be_.

(At this rate the shower's gonna start talking about commitment, and he's also starting to kind of consider it a rival for Cas's affections. In no way does this affect how much he's jerking off (especially when he knows exactly when Cas was last in there doing the exact same fucking thing) but is making him resent water a little for existing.)

On the other hand, five hours past dusk until an hour before dawn is pretty much the only time he's guaranteed to get Cas to himself these days, and he's really starting to wonder about that. Sure, he's leader and everything, but it's kind of weird how much suddenly needs his (or Cas's) attention or how often someone drops by with a question that desperately needs an answer _right now_. They're all legit, too, which makes him suspicious: not one dumb question. Winning a game of craps against _Cas_ would get better odds than that.

"I didn't realize I'd react like this to the possibility of Jeremy leaving Chitaqua for good," Cas says abruptly, bracing his head on one hand, dark hair in his eyes that for once he doesn't try and fail to fight into submission. "It helped that Vera told me that she didn't expect how she'd feel when Joseph suggested it, either, but it was still a very depressing conversation."

Dean doesn't laugh (this is serious, okay), but Jesus. News at two (AM, that is): Cas cares about people. Next up: Lucifer's a dick. "I bet."

"So under the circumstances, it would be very hypocritical for me to argue that you shouldn't be worried about me while we're in Ichabod tonight, because it has nothing to do with 'should', so argument doesn't help," Cas continues, and Dean loses the urge to laugh. "At least your concerns have a nominal basis in reality, while Vera's and mine are 'reasons, many of them, some quite terrible we're sure'."

He keeps his mouth determinedly shut in case he accidentally starts talking and fuck knows what'll come out, which may or may not include feelings (a lot of them, some he's not sure have names, in which case will require descriptions). He settles for nodding firmly.

"While I would prefer your enjoyment at the celebration tonight isn't hindered at all, much less by your concerns regarding me, as there's no reason for them--"

He makes the required protesting grunt when Cas pauses for it, because Sam told him relationships are all about compromise and he can do that.

"--they exist, and it's…" Cas stops to check his mental dictionary (English: all editions, ever). "...like when you traumatized the entire watch."

Okay…. "What?"

"You were upset," Cas explains, and Dean's eyes widen at how that is just--no. "Or as Matt put it, homicidal."

"Second one."

"I was trying to be tactful," Cas says, not knowing what 'tactful' means or even have a working understanding of the concept. "I told you later that it wasn't necessary--"

"You can take care of yourself, nothing to worry about," Dean drones.

"--but I didn't tell you that I liked it."

He shuts his mouth so fast he almost bites his tongue. "What?"

"I asked Matt and Amanda to give me a complete verbal report of the events that occurred that night in detail," Cas continues. "Multiple times, and asked for clarification on several key points more than once, simply to enjoy hearing it again. Your creativity regarding the consequences of such carelessness in the future is to be lauded; I understand at least one of them began to cry."

"Huh." That's kind of all he's got here (though it was definitely more than one).

"Amanda assured me that more than once she was very close to disarming you to avoid summary execution of all of the watch in the middle of the cabin," Cas adds, reaching up to push his hair out of his eyes, blue eyes glinting. "And thoroughly described each time she almost had to intervene while Matt assured me they were being one hundred percent accurate in all the particulars."

So Amanda and Matt are going to be really surprised when bottles of Eldritch Horror mysteriously appear in their cabins (or room at Alison's) sometime very, very soon. 

"So." Dean frantically clears his throat at the husky sound of his own voice. "Want me to beat up anyone for you?"

Cas smiles slowly. "I might, yes."

Yeah, talking's done now. He tugs Cas down into a kiss, tasting the shape of his smile, and rolls him onto the mattress with a cheerful squeal of springs and breathing Cas's husky laugh.

Pulling back, he strokes back Cas's hair before leaning in again. "Just tell me who and when."

* * *

"….and check in at HQ once an hour," Dean continues, looking around the assembled faces of his brave (crazy) militia and fighting the urge to remind everyone about people skills: ie, interacting with people _not Chitaquan_. Though at this point, he's uncomfortably aware he's become hazy on that as well; Chitaqua Syndrome is definitely a thing. "Remember--"

"They may one day be allies, but they aren't and can't be friends," Joe drawls, the _fucker_. "We don't eat their steak and potatoes and hang with--wait, wrong speech?"

"You're mowing all of Chitaqua," he threatens. "Cas, write that down."

"Yes, sir," his loyal second-in-command says, leaning against a post beside him. "Joseph, mowing Chitaqua. When we have grass, that is. And less snow as well."

Dean doesn't even bother glaring. "Anyway--"

"Don't scare the natives," Christina says earnestly, and honest to God, you'd think being their leader would be good for say, respect, or at least faking it. "Question: is my confirmed kills awesome or scary? In case I want to hook up with a native, I mean."

"I was about to ask about that," Tara pipes up. "Protected sex, of course. I'm responsible, and the spread of STDs is a serious problem that we need to take seriously, here are the reasons--"

"Just wait until your next unexplained rash," Vera says from the front of the crowd.

Sighing, Dean gives up anyone taking anything seriously this early in the morning. Enthusiasm--such as it is--can't survive a fucking pre-dawn wake-up call, unless you're James, whose default setting is 'enthusiastic', or Alicia, who at the moment is standing apart from her team looking very awake in that way that implies not much sleep occurred beforehand and he really doesn't want to think about that too hard.

It was surprisingly easy to decide who was going to Ichabod, since not that many seemed all that enthusiastic about an overnight party in another town. On a guess, it's the 'not at Chitaqua' part that was the dealbreaker, because he just doesn't buy the two TV's and what looked like half a jeep of DVDs plus three days of extra leave were that much of an inducement to stay behind. 

It's not like he wanted this to be a draw straws kind of thing, but come _on_ ; the teams were picked by seniority, but the two most senior, Sarah and Mel, both opted to stay behind, so they ended up with Kyle, Alicia, James, and Sean, plus Joe (as half his team's in Ichabod and Mike asked permission to stay with Sheila for their first New Year's while wearing the most hideous orange mittens Dean's ever seen: so it really is the thought that counts), Vera, and five people not on the patrol teams. Five.

On one hand, he gets it; it's not only that Chitaqua was pretty isolated for over two years, but their initial attempts at being friendly often ended with passive-aggressive or just plain aggressive hostility (read: bullets). On the other, it's a _party_ with alcohol and what will definitely be a lot of potential indiscriminate sex with all new people, and drinking and sex are two of Chitaqua's top three collective hobbies.

Dean waves a hand. "Okay, everyone has a copy of their shifts on patrol, and a copy will be at our headquarters in Ichabod; any problems, report to whoever's on HQ duty, Cas, or me." Cas clears his throat as loudly as possible, "Or not me because I have no idea, I'm just your leader." Everyone laughs, but at least it's sympathetic; they all live and die on Cas's goddamn schedules, and Dean recently found out it's also password protected (he was just looking, okay). "Any questions? Never mind, don't care," he adds quickly when several people start looking excited about that. "We head out two hours after dawn. Dismissed. Except Vera and Joe."

Ignoring the disappointed sighs (yeah, that's what he thought), Dean goes back inside, retrieving his and Cas's empty cups on the way to the kitchen, and notes in relief Cas started a new pot before the meeting. "Anyone want coffee?"

"Please," Vera calls as Joe ambles into the kitchen with an innocent smile.

"Not you," Dean tells him, getting two more cups. "And fuck you, by the way. I was _making a point_ with that."

"With my blood pressure, you mean," Joe retorts, rummaging through the silverware drawer for spoons before grabbing the sugar and creamer from the kitchen table. "Seeing myself marching across Kansas, sacking cities in your name--"

"That was Cas's idea."

"Could we really conquer Kansas in two weeks?" Joe asks, picking up one of the cups with his free hand. 

"Probably," he admits, just managing to get the other three without burning himself in a feat of coordination he's pretty sure is goddamn impressive (and doesn't spill any on the way to the living room, either).

He waits for everyone to get comfortable (and Joe to take a drink) before saying, "Congratulations; you both just got promoted."

Vera freezes and Joe just manages to not spit out coffee, which is kind of disappointing, but his expression almost makes up for it. "What?" Vera asks while Joe manfully attempts to not look like he's choking.

"We'll be in Ichabod for at least five days to accommodate the Alliance meeting," Cas says. "During that time, as our teams will be taking regular shifts with Ichabod's patrol, someone needs to be authorized to act for Dean and I when we aren't available. Amanda and Kamal will also be assisting, but Amanda's students will take priority when instruction resumes."

"Like when we're sleeping," Dean says, relaxing back into the couch and bracing a foot on the coffee table. "Maybe seeing the sights, whatever."

Joe nods, wiping his mouth discreetly. "Yeah, I was going to mention that. You're also going to need it during the Alliance meeting; not all of it's open to the public, and I don't think they'd appreciate us interrupting. Not to mention just because it's supposed to be a three day meeting doesn't mean it won't be longer; this is their big one, and from what I understand, there's at least one or two towns who've made some noise in Alison's direction about joining up."

Dean didn't realize he could actually look forward to this any less than he already did: the more you know. "Great."

"Cas, you made a schedule for us yet?" Vera asks, like there could possibly be any doubt.

"Yes, but I'd prefer you and Joseph meet with Amanda and Kamal when you arrive in Ichabod before it's finalized," Cas says, opening his laptop (any goddamn excuse) and tapping impatiently before turning the screen. "Joseph, you've acted as _de facto_ commander of Chitaqua several times, so you'll take the first shift tonight; Vera--"

"Watch and learn," she says, nodding. "Now, question: why me?"

"You have command experience from your time as a team leader," Cas answers. "Like Joseph, your team isn't taking patrol shifts--"

"I don't have a team."

"Technically, you do; Jeremy is still a member." Vera rolls her eyes. "Our choice is limited to those without teams on patrol who are also going to be present in Ichabod and have no other duties, who include Rachel, Gary--"

"Who's only going for sex with Laura," Joe interjects. "Seriously, they'll get a room and not leave it, probably until it's time to come home."

"--Evelyn and Natalie, who have never been on patrol or even out of this camp," Cas continues, "Jeremy--"

"Also going to get laid," Vera says with a sigh in her voice. "And seventeen."

"--and last but not least, Sidney."

Vera and Joe wince in unison, looking at Dean warily. He shrugs, taking another drink of coffee (Vera wasn't even _here_ for that).

"So basically, not being Sydney was the deciding factor here," Vera says, nodding. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"The shift schedule for Ichabod is on here." Cas hands Joe and Vera each a jump drive (red). "It includes patrol's and on-call at headquarters, which are hourly shifts, and a tentative draft for command, which is currently split into four six-hour periods, with the morning shift beginning at seven AM to coordinate it with true dawn as best we can."

"Check it out," Dean says invitingly. "I get a whole six hours tomorrow. One to seven."

Vera leans forward, peering at the schedule that's ruining Dean's life. "Why's your name in grey?"

"Because," he says before Cas can answer, "I don't take enough days off and going to Ichabod doesn't count."

"I showed you my documentation on your daily schedule," Cas says dismissively. "This subject is closed. Vera, Joseph, you should both have time to review the Ichabod Schedule before we leave; copy it onto your hard drive and return these before we leave today. Please remember to save a copy with any changes you may have to your gamma drive in the appropriate folder and bring it with you to better coordinate with Amanda and Kamal. I'll expect a final copy before two PM, as the first team goes on patrol at four."

Vera looks at the jump drive with narrowed eyes, because Cas's first order of business once they'd eaten lunch and Vera reported on Alpha a few days ago was to introduce her to her laptop, and it went pretty much like Dean expected.

("Her name is Cecilia," Cas told her, setting it on her lap reverently. "I've updated it with all the programs you require, as well as a primer on how to use the template for patrol reports, a copy of the patrol schedule for the next six months, and a copy of the report database. Currently, your privileges are limited to 'user' until you've completed the required four hour computer literacy class to gain limited admin access; we'll arrange a time in the near future. There's an additional four hour course in how to use Microsoft Office and a six hour course on database theory; it's not mandatory, but it's strongly recommended you take it so to better understand the template system, the patrol spreadsheets, and the structure of the database as well as learn the rudiments of VBA and SQL. Chuck will be happy to arrange it; he's an excellent instructor."

"Spreadsheets," Vera echoed, looking at Dean helplessly. Like he could do anything here: come on.

"Please don't save any personal files to the hard drive; you'll be issued a jump drive for that. Speaking of, these are your five jump drives," Cas said, presenting them to her a lot like a cat does dead mice; like you're supposed to be happy about it. "Alpha is to be used for patrol reports only, beta for required updates and revisions to the patrol schedule and report database, which is updated every Sunday and you will need to acquire from me before dawn on Monday, gamma for any private documents, delta for regular backups of your system in addition to the automatic weekly backups, and epsilon for any intracamp data exchanges including pornography both visual and textual."

"They're color-coordinated," Dean told her as she stared at the neatly labeled rainbow of anal-retentive colors in her lap. "Except red: that's Cas's special color no one else can use."

"It's for read-only files issued by Chitaqua's commanders," Cas said stiffly. "Laptops are to be presented for inspection on a monthly basis, but there will be random checks as I see fit." Vera blinked at him. "It's all in the primer located in My Documents. When would you like to begin class?")

Vera hasn't started class but has (or so Dean's heard) tried to hack her laptop, which yeah, good luck there. Alison taught Cas all about encryption and how to make obnoxious pop-up windows appear with sarcastic messages when you forget to back up or try to change the wallpaper (soothing blue bubbles, to promote serenity or (this being Cas) fuck with everyone's head). Dean's starting to get nervous about the entire LAN thing in their future; he's not sure what Cas can do with a live, all-access pass to everyone's laptops, but Cas apparently does know (thanks, Alison) and is really looking forward to it. Like a lot.

Dean tries and fails to miss Vera's significant look as she and Joe excuse themselves to review the next few days of their lives in Excel, and sure, he could just sit here drinking coffee and ignore Vera waiting, but he does live in this camp with her, one, and two--fuck his life, Cas has his laptop open.

"Be right back," he says on the off-chance Cas is paying attention (he isn't), and sighing, grabs his coat and goes outside to see Vera sitting on the steps before Operation: Salt and Burn becomes reality (it's already a daily struggle). "So what--" and then gets a glimpse of her face.

Lowering himself down on the step, he frowns at her troubled expression. "Everything okay?" He hopes she didn't break Cecilia; nothing and no one can protect her from how Cas reacts to--how'd he put it?--'willful and depraved misuse of camp equipment' and one day he's sure, Amber will move on from that discussion. 

"Yeah, I…." She blows out a breath, giving him a frown. "Why me?"

"Why you what?"

"Is it because I saved your life?" she asks. "Because that wasn't personal, okay? I'd do that for someone I hated."

Oh. "That puts you ahead of Darryl."

"There is that." She slumps, resting her elbows on her knees. "Dean--"

"Come on, supervising the militia in Ichabod for a few days isn't a reward for anything," he says reasonably. "More like a really subtle way to fuck with you, if you think about it."

"I wondered about that," she agrees. "Yet, I'm not convinced. If this is your very weird way of showing your gratitude, then I don't want it."

"It's not."

Her eyes narrow. "Then why?"

Christ, it's not even _dawn_. "It's complicated--"

"Bullshit."

"Wasn't finished," he says warningly, wishing he'd brought his coffee. "Look, for one, we don't have a lot of people to choose from here, if that helps. I'm pretty sure the only person qualified to run this camp is Cas. Half the time, _I_ don't know what I'm doing."

Vera's suspicious expression softens into amusement. "You are so fishing."

"Whatever." He rolls her eyes at her faint grin. "Look, I trust you, and not just because of that. You did good at Alpha; shows leadership skills and diplomacy and shit."

She frowns, which he takes as a win. "Yeah, okay, but--"

"If me and Cas are going to Alpha," he starts, "we're gonna be gone for at least a few months at minimum, and while we'll technically be in regular contact, we're talking a week or two turnaround." She nods. "That means we need at least two people in command here who can keep things going; you and Joe are the best choice we have. Yeah, it helps you're not on patrol, since Amanda's kids are gonna be coming in and I need all the teams we have working with them and keeping up our schedule."

"Two." She cocks her head. "That's the part I was wondering about."

He knows Joe was wondering that, too, but he figured she'd be the one to actually ask. "You've had time to catch up on the gossip. If I--I don't know--decided to do something really stupid, you think anyone would argue or just go do it no matter how crazy?"

"I would, and so would Cas." She blinks, straightening. "Oh. What Joe said outside--"

"That was a quote, yeah." He blows out a breath. "It's habit, I get that, and it takes time. Me and Cas being gone: that might help speed up the learning curve. They'll obey you and Joe because I said so," that much he knows, "but maybe--just maybe--they'll start working on their thinking for themselves skills if someone shows 'em how it's done. Also," he adds casually, "lowers the risk of you couping the camp--"

"What?"

"--which let's face it, is something you're kind of known for," he finishes serenely.

Vera opens and closes her mouth. "You--"

"Keep your friends close," he says wisely as he gets to his feet, "and your enemies closer. And people who can organize a camp-wide coup in under eight hours for someone else--who didn't even know about it--them you put in command." He grins down at her. "Anything else?"

* * *

Dean finishes packing, gets two cups of coffee, then gives up and surreptitiously closes the laptop while Cas is getting coffee (not like he didn't save already). "I take days off."

"You don't," Cas answers, dropping onto the couch beside him with only a faint frown at the to-be-burned laptop. "Just because you don't currently go on regular patrol or have shifts in the mess or garage doesn't mean you don't do work and a great deal of it. It's simply not physical, and admittedly also for the most part boring work."

Dean sinks back into his corner, because Cas may ( _may_ ) have a point, and he might be (is) sulking about it.

"When Amanda's finished with her current class, I plan to select four of those coming to Chitaqua for further training," Cas says out of the blue. "By the time we return from Alpha, the class should be familiar with patrol and their duties in Chitaqua, and it will be natural I'll wish to evaluate them then. Your input will be needed both during the selection process and during their instruction."

"For what?" Then he catches what Cas just said and doesn't even try to stop the grin. "You're going to try the teaching thing again, huh?"

"They'll be advanced enough that the risk is minimal," Cas answers evasively, folding an arm on the back of the couch. "Amanda agrees, and for the most part, I'll be chiefly engaged in demonstration and supervise them while they practice against each other."

Grin widening, he nods agreement. "Cool. So what do you need me for?"

"Compatibility," Cas says. "While Chitaqua's hunters are more experienced, none of Amanda's class lacks experience, and several were regular patrol members in Ichabod before recruitment." He hesitates, looking at Dean intently. "So while I review them, you can observe and tell me which you would feel comfortable having on your team."

It takes Dean way too long to put that together. "My team."

"I'll be a member as well," Cas adds, _of course_ unspoken. "We'll use the same formula as we do for new teams; in this case, it will be assumed to familiarize the new members with our--"

"My team." Just to make sure. "Like--to leave the camp and go on patrol and do shit? When there's shit to do, I mean."

"You'll be assigned at least once to all regular patrol routes," Cas agrees. "After that, I assume you'll wish for more individualized missions."

"Right." He needs to deal with this. "How long until Vera and Joe get back?"

"At least ten minutes if they return immediately, but no matter how often I explain--" Cas's voice cuts off as Dean takes his cup and sets it on the coffee table before pushing him back onto the couch. "Joseph procrastinates a great deal," he says hopefully, tugging Dean down with a grin. "Perhaps twenty."

"Good," he breathes, and feels the vibration of Cas's laughter against his lips.

* * *

Scooping Lily up from the floor where she's been waiting, arms raised in imperious command, Castiel sets her on the table, tapping her nose when her tiny faces screws up in a warning frown of disaster to come should her will be denied (being held: she's very demanding).

"A moment, Lily," he says seriously as he sits down again. "All children who behave with discretion receive brownies as a reward for appropriate behavior. You're very fortunate that I made several batches and Dean didn't find them all before we left Chitaqua. It wasn't easy to hide them."

Lily looks distinctly unimpressed, but Tony's observed that her intelligence is unusually high, especially considering her age, and he finds himself in full agreement.

"You get," Alison says in amusement from the side of the table, "that she's two and change, right?"

"She's a very precocious two." He smiles in satisfaction as Lily bursts into giggles when he pokes her stomach experimentally (Tony's suggestion, should she become displeased). "Her last physical exam?"

"Five days ago, and same as the other kids," Alison answers indulgently as he catches one wandering hand, tiny fingers locking around his thumb triumphantly. "Now, you ready?"

Angels are incapable of making mistakes, but the human mind is complex, and being subject to change itself--both at the demands of its own processes as well as environmental and those related to the children's development--he thought it prudent to check regularly over the next year. There's no danger, of course--at worst, he'd simply need to adjust the neural pathways that connected individual memories--but it's best to catch such things early to avoid any potential distress. Alison explained the process to all the parents very thoroughly, and he'd answered their questions this morning in the daycare's common room after they'd arrived in Ichabod. 

"What's worst-case scenario?" Tony asked him as Dee climbed determinedly into Castiel's lap (proof of her excellent motor control and almost uncanny sense of balance; she needed very little assistance). 

Settling Dee (and picking out a leaf from her among her braids), he shrugged. "At worst, the dissonance would be expressed during REM sleep. The memories no longer exist as such, but--do you remember all your dreams?" The parents as a group shook their heads. "You still have the memories, of course, but the brain was designed not to prioritize and save those in the same way as events you actually do and accomplish. When I unmade the symbol, I was able to erase it as well; it doesn't exist in their memories at all, and the space it took was removed from the linear chronology altogether, which the brain's inbuilt prioritization would interpret as the equivalent of 'dream' and not a terribly interesting or important one."

"I'm hearing a 'but'," Njoya remarked, one arm wrapped protectively around Jessica's shoulders and Ayuk, her and Eyong's second youngest, asleep in her lap. 

"That's because there is one," he answered, adjusting his hold on Dee as she started to fall asleep against his chest (which looking around the room seemed common for those under six). "The human brain should ignore that space as it does anything in the general category of 'dream', subcategory 'boring'. However, it will--for its own ineffable reasons--sometimes recreate neural pathways despite its own inbuilt system of prioritization, much like it does with dreams you experienced years or even decades ago. I can't speculate on the contents of REM dreaming when that occurs, but as there's nothing to remember, I suspect imagination would create something to express the concept of 'nothing there'. Which could be anything, but considering the children's history, abandonment would be a valid interpretation: an empty home, an empty daycare, perhaps even the entire town abandoned."

Deepika nodded. "Nothing else?"

"No," he told her, aware Dee had started to drool against his shirt but unwilling to wake her from what seems like a very pleasant nap; Dean enjoys those, too. "Generally, this level of monitoring would be considered unnecessary to members of the Host, as there's no danger of damage to neural integrity and the human brain, especially with children, can adjust to almost anything. However…" He frowns, aware of the warm, comfortable weight of Dee on his lap, the soft, regular sound of her breathing. "They've been through a great deal in their lives already, and very little of it can be helped with other than support. This is not one of those things; what happened to them in the daycare and what they were forced to carry in their minds would have no benefit to their development and I see no reason for them to be forced to retain any part of it. Over the next year Alison and I will verify those memories continue to degrade appropriately so they won't be troubled by them either now or at any point in their lives. Threshold should be reached at a year; with very few exceptions, at that point the memories will have degraded to the point that for all intents and purposes they will cease to exist."

"I'm ready," he tells Alison, taking her hand and watching in fascination as Lily's mind opens for them. Doing this is very different now, but not because he's using a telepath as the medium or any lack in his inborn abilities; he still possesses the full range of an angel's skill without exception. He can still read and interpret the massive amount of data that makes up a human mind, and careful evaluation has verified there's been no change in his ability to alter, change, and erase individual engrams as needed without damage to neurological integrity. 

It's different, however; for all his existence, human minds--while complex beyond imagining--were all very much the same with very few (and usually traumatic to the species) exceptions. He can't imagine now why he thought that; the set pattern of human thought and behavior is applicable only up to the point that it isn't (at all), careening off-course in baffling directions in defiance of instinct, logic, common sense, self-preservation and often, the confines of perceived reality. The Host understood (though he can state now, not very well) that the development of the human species depended on these fluctuations as they achieved sentience and full sapience and their brain development superseded primal instinct. 

Perhaps, he reflects, observing the ordered chaos of a toddler's mind, they should have spent more time with children. 

Ignoring the bright jumble of surface thought--even at this age, privacy is to be respected--he examines the changes he made in her memory, searching for any sign of rejection or dissonance and assuring no new pathways were formed in relation to them. Alison observes carefully; this kind of examination is beyond her skill but well within her potential, and at this stage, she learns most easily from watching him.

Once he's certain of Lily's neurological integrity, he repeats the process more slowly for Alison's benefit, watching as she absorbs what he shows her. At this point, 'why' is not necessarily important for her to know and might even be counterproductive. Like reflex training, the point now is for her to memorize the process itself, each step familiar in action if not reason; this method will assure perfect safety for the mind in question even if Alison should make a mistake, and at the early stages of learning, sheer uncertainty as to her own skill guarantees there will be mistakes. Understanding 'why' will come when the skill is brought into practice. In a month or two, when they repeat this with the children, he'll have her do the second check herself and simply observe.

Alison's alarm ripples across his consciousness as he finishes the demonstration. Sitting back, he lets go of Alison's hand and pulls free of Lily's clinging fingers before tickling the outraged look from her face. 

"You did very well," he tells her (and Alison, who snorts), catching Lily easily before she tumbles from the table in pursuit of his thumb. "Derek will now give you your reward. Derek, if you would--"

"Got her," Derek answers cheerfully, already beside him. Plucking Lily from his lap--an offense apparently on par with dismemberment from her expression--he tosses her in the air before she can begin more vocal forms of protest before bracing her against his hip and taking her to the other side of the room, where the other children from the church are enjoying their afternoon snack. "Jessie, you're up."

Standing up to turn his chair, Castiel waits for Jessica to seat herself between him and Alison. As the eldest of the children from the church and now thirteen, she was well above the age of reason during the initial events, and with the addition of puberty, memory adjustment can sometimes have unexpected consequences. Looking into the clear grey eyes, he smiles reassuringly and is rewarded with a shy smile in return. 

Unlike some of the younger children, her history is better known due to her age at the time of her rescue as well as the efforts and support of her adoptive parents. Eyong and Njoya, though already raising two children by birth, were among the first to offer homes for the children from the church, and unsurprisingly, were an excellent choice for a girl that, like them, had lost so much and so traumatically.

Like Mercedes and Antonio, Jessica's parents were migrant farmers on circuit in Kansas and were among those shot by soldiers stationed at the southern border of Kansas during the rush after the state was zoned. The Sisters of Mercy--having been warned about the possibility of Kansas being zoned--were patrolling the borders to offer sanctuary and help to those who couldn't cross and found her wandering near the deliberately oblivious checkpoint in shock and taken her back to the convent. For it is beneath the border patrol to shoot children (sometimes) but above reproach to simply watch a ten year old child in severe shock slowly succumb to potential dehydration and starvation for two long days within sight of her parents' decomposing bodies.

Eyong and Njoya worked tirelessly to help her recover, the result of which is a very healthy and happy young girl who is (according to Njoya) already fluent in three languages, including the native French of her parents, and is showing extraordinary potential for linguistic studies.

(Though it must be noted, in Ichabod, adequacy in at least two languages seems to be the rule with no exceptions. Even Alison--who by her own admission and his verification has no talent for secondary language acquisition whatsoever--has achieved near fluency in Spanish and Hindi, but in her case, the manifestation of her psychic abilities was the catalyst, and the results--unusual and not entirely under her control. Alison sometimes unknowingly has carried on an entire conversation in colloquial Nahuatl as spoken by Teresa's grandmother pulled wholesale from Teresa's memory, and Neeraja swears more than once Alison sounds exactly like her great-grandfather.)

During the meeting, to give him better context for their children's developing minds, the parents were extremely forthcoming regarding their individual personalities. To his surprise, it was fascinating; he had no idea how interesting humans could be before they reached maturity. 

For example, Paul, Claudia's youngest son and Derek's brother, is already an accomplished tactician with above-average motor control, able to locate and steal pastries wherever they might hide them, and Barbara, Deepika reported with perfectly understandable pride, is already fluent in Telugu, her own mother tongue, and has a startling talent for mathematics far above what would be expected of any ten year old. Tony told him that Dee (barely five years old) is already reading and writing well above something known as 'grade level', knows all her colors on sight, can sing the alphabet song forward and backward (she demonstrated), and has far above-average accuracy when throwing blocks at persons who displease her, a habit that is not to be encouraged, of course, but he agrees with Tony that it shows extraordinary hand-eye coordination and obvious potential genius. (And excellent survival skills as well: small children, he's noted, are surprisingly dangerous in groups.)

They were also in agreement with him that Jeremy's hunting skills--learned at age fifteen--are extraordinary, which is a fact he never realized how much he wanted to share with others. He looks forward to speaking to them further; from what he understands, the daycare's mid-year examinations have yet to all be graded, but there's no doubt in anyone's minds (including his) that all the children passed far and above any possible expectations for their various ages.

"You understand what we'll be doing?" he asks Jessica. "Alison and I will be examining your mind for any potential problems related to the events that occurred at the daycare." He tries to remember if she'd looked uneasy at the earlier meeting. He doesn't think so, but he may have misinterpreted her surprising interest. "Your privacy will be respected, of course; all we'll be evaluating is your general memory functions in relation to recent events. You have no reason to be concerned, but if you have any questions before we begin, please don't hesitate to ask."

She shakes her head adamantly, but the silence is worrying. 

"Are you certain?" Baffled, he watches the sudden spread of hot color across her cheeks as her eyes flicker down before looking at him again and nodding firmly. Even more inexplicably, Alison is smirking at him, though what that look is supposed to convey is beyond him. "Very well, give me your hand."

With reassuring alacrity, Jessica extends it, cheeks reddening further. Before he can ask, however, Alison shakes her head almost frantically, reaching across the table to close a hand around his wrist and informing him in a single laughing thought she'll explain when they're done.

As it turns out, that's not necessary; this, he supposes uncertainly, would be what Vera was trying to describe regarding teenagers, and Jessica is indeed one of them. Suppressing startlement, he examines her mind carefully, repeating the process for Alison's observation, and pauses for an infinitesimal moment to convey to Alison how very much he would have appreciated a warning before gently easing back and arranging his expression to impassivity.

"Thank you, Jessica," he says seriously, letting go of her hand and fighting down a smile at her faint disappointment. "You did very well."

As soon as Jessica joins the other children, Alison tips her head toward the door questioningly. Nodding, he follows her into the hall while the children are immersed in Derek's inspired decision to screen _Toy Story 2_ , an intriguing Pixar movie that he promised to copy for Chitaqua.

Closing the door carefully behind them, Alison smirks up at him. "What?"

He glances back at the closed door. "You could have warned me."

"I can't figure out how you missed it," she answers as they start down the hall. "Blushing, stammering, and giggling whenever you look in her direction since you got here….might as well have drawn you a big glittery sign."

"A sign," he answers patiently, "would have been very welcome, yes."

"What did you expect?" she asks, laughter in her voice as they reach the staircase. "You're older--"

"Than Time."

"--tall, mysterious, fight demons, have superpowers, and kind of hot. For a guy anyway," Alison says as they descend the stairs. " _And_ personally saved her and the town from Croatoans. Most importantly, you're not from here and part of a cool militia, so you're interesting. She's a teenage girl: it was kind of inevitable."

He glances down at her uncertainly. "Vera explained the concept of a 'crush' as it applies to adolescents. Provided the object is not a sleazy douchebag who takes advantage of their vulnerability and immaturity, it's a healthy and safe way for adolescents in early puberty to contemplate their developing sexual and romantic feelings." Alison raises her eyebrows as they turn on the landing. "It was in one of her books on child and adolescent development. She highlighted the appropriate passages for my edification."

"Jeremy, right." He nods. "Dean already grilled me about the teen party, yeah. Kid's first time around girls and boys his age?"

"He and Dean had a very thorough discussion of what is and is not appropriate behavior on the way here," he says. "I had no idea how many potential pitfalls there were in adolescent courtship behavior.

"You have no idea how much I wish I could have heard it live," she says sincerely as they reach the first floor and start toward the kitchen-slash-breakroom. "You should see when Dean takes a shift, and I don't mean just the teenagers."

"They have excellent taste," he says as they emerge into the thankfully-empty kitchen, smelling of coffee. "He's very attractive."

"Coffee?"

"I'll get it," he offers, noting her very slight limp and steering her toward the chair before she has the opportunity to become stubborn. The kitchen is exceedingly well-organized, he notes in satisfaction, finding the mugs to the left and taking down two before pouring them each a cup from the imposing coffee maker, far larger than any at Chitaqua and made entirely of metal.

"We haven't had time to talk since I was last here," he continues, returning to the table and setting a cup in front of Alison before seating himself across from her. "How are you doing?"

"Practicing your small talk?" she asks disbelievingly, reaching for the sugar.

"Sincere interest," he assures her as he adds cream to his own cup and waits impatiently for her to finish with the sugar. "That cast will be very uncomfortable tonight if you wish to dance, which I was told is a feature in large celebrations."

Alison frowns, spoon pausing mid-stir. "What cast?"

"The cast you'll be wearing in roughly one hour. After I take you to the infirmary to have your ankle examined by Vera and she tells Dolores that in her opinion she removed the last one far too early," he answers, taking the opportunity to retrieve the sugar. "Otherwise, the damage to your ankle will be permanent."

She sits back, eyes narrowing as she gazes at him over the rim of her cup.

"They're getting along very well," he adds, adding four spoonfuls of sugar and stirring thoroughly, verifying the color is correct before removing his spoon and taking an experimental sip. "Dolores is very excited to have a colleague with so much experience in treating the injuries of recalcitrant patients."

"Dean?" Alison asks with a ghost of her usual malice.

"Me, and if it's all the same to you, I'd like to avoid the infirmary today so as not to hear exactly what stories are being shared at the moment." He studies her critically, looking for signs of insomnia, but while there are signs of strain, they're all very much current. And her expression…. "You're listening for the new arrivals."

She grimaces. "Big party, lots of visitors."

Of course. "Teresa's wards will catch Croatoan and demons--along with anything else supernatural--but not those who might be hostile to Teresa should they know what she is." 

"The Alliance knows her," she answers, taking a long drink and looking as if she might benefit from alcohol. "Individuals, though…not so much. At least, not more than 'person who comes and stares at the fields for fertility blah blah blah'."

He takes another sip. "Has it been a problem before?"

"No, but last year this time it was us, Harlin, Noak, and a few locals who weren’t scared of being killed on the way to the party," she retorts. "And a lot less people, period. Five towns--and one militia camp--plus exponential population growth, no monsters--at least, none attacking _them_ \--and free food and trade equals popularity. At least, more than last year."

He reviews his last glimpse of the official entry point on Third an hour and a half ago; there were people already arriving, though most Claudia classified as of the merchant persuasion, along with a startling amount of livestock. "I assume you now know it's not simply a matter of selective filtering."

"Yeah, thanks." She glares at him. "I can mostly tune out my people, but it takes a lot of concentration and did I mention I'm not good at that kind of thing?"

"You'll get better from practice." That doesn't help now, he knows. Leaning his elbows on the table, he tries to think. "You realize, of course, that those entering the town now are unlikely to be thinking at that exact moment about their homicidal tendencies toward witches in general and a detailed plan of how to kill them should one appear?"

"You're really not helping."

Which means she knows that. "And you realize that you have no natural right to invade the privacy of their minds to discover that lacking _casus belli_?" Alison's expression doesn't change, but he suspects she knows that as well. "As you start, so shall you go on. An argument could be made--and you could make it--that anyone who enters your town for any reason is a potential threat, but I think you can see why an exercise in advanced sophistry in this case would be a problem, especially for you."

"Because I'm too powerful?" she says bitterly.

"Power doesn't corrupt," he answers patiently. "People corrupt themselves, and the strength of the tool neither slows nor speeds its advance. You could be as psychically null as the most mundane of humans and neither mayor of Ichabod nor leader of the Alliance, and you would still be dangerous in Teresa's defense. _Everyone_ is dangerous when it comes to those they care about; the only difference in this case is the scope, which yes, is worrying in a general way, but not more than anyone with an arsenal at their disposal and the ability to use it."

"Anything I need to worry about from Chitaqua? Breaks-ups, new relationships, incipient triangles ending in a blood-soaked showdown over ribs and chicken curry?" she asks curiously. 

"Sean still feels threatened by Zack's previous relationship with Nate, and Kyle exists," he admits. "But neither have the temperament for mass murder without extreme duress, and I doubt that will be a problem tonight."

Alison frowns. "Nate's the resident evangelical who likes to pray the morning after for the sins he wants to regret doing the night before?" She waves a hand. "Amanda said something after getting a letter from Sean."

"I'm still reflecting on our past interactions--though in my experience, prayer can occur almost before one has a chance to enjoy the afterglow--to discover how it should be dealt with."

Alison lowers her cup. "He prayed to _your Dad_ about sex with you?" He nods, wondering at her expression, and she sits back. "Holy shit, I thought I was bad with Clarissa's parents, and I had the excuse of being a freshman going through a thing where I used the word 'breeders' without irony." She shakes her head. "I was actually surprised we broke up after, too. What was I thinking?"

"I don't see--"

"Cas, Nate did the equivalent of calling your dad to tell him how terrible you and he are for having sex," she explains. "One--who calls your hook-up's parents after sex? No one. That _does not happen_. Two--your dad is _God_. If you're going to call--and again, this does not happen, but okay--and it's _God_ , that's when you talk about…not sex ever, but….." She trails off, looking baffled. "I can't even unpack how much is wrong with that. It's everything."

"My Father and I don't have a relationship that can be mapped onto the human concept of parental," he argues, feeling uneasy and not sure why. "Or paternal, for that matter. It's complicated and unfathomable…." He pauses. "It does seem like strange behavior for a human, yes."

"Would you call up Dean's dad and tell him how you're banging his son and regret it because evil?"

He puts down his cup. "I can't imagine talking about Dean to John Winchester while armed. Ever. His mother, however….oh."

"Exactly." She shrugs. "Gonna say, Nate's issues are probably the kind that come in layers. There's internalized homophobia and then there's banging an ex-angel and denying reality with added calling _God_ to complain about his kid--Jesus," she adds, struck. "I keep finding new things wrong with that every time I think it."

"You're avoiding the original subject," he points out, because she is and not from a profound desire to abandon this subject as quickly as possible. People use his Father's name during sex all the time. It's not…whatever this is.

She sighs. "Acting like everyone's after you, you may start believing it, yeah, Cas, I know." She huffs an annoyed breath, finishing her cup in a single rebellious swallow. "If it were Dean, you wouldn't be paranoid?"

"I _am_ paranoid," he corrects her. "However, it's not a state of being I wish to cultivate, as like you, when I feel my partner's threatened, I can dispose of the suspects before they can do anything to stop me with depressingly few exceptions. Hence, I try to set a personal standard somewhat higher than 'vaguely suspicious' so as to avoid outright genocide of the human race."

Alison's eyebrows draw sharply together. "On behalf of the human race, thanks."

"You're welcome," he states, finishing his own cup and getting up. "More coffee?"

"Yes, and before you ask, no, there's no alcohol in the daycare, I checked." He doesn't sigh on his way to the pot, filling both their cups with truly excellent coffee from the most sublime coffee maker he's ever seen. It must hold at least twenty cups, and despite the period of time since the coffee was probably made, the flavor doesn't seem to have become stale at all. Surely James can find them one; he's very good at that.

"I'm not reading them all, just--getting a mood," she says, taking back her cup. "I like being sane, thanks, and listening to that many people thinking would end that for good."

Finishing his additions to his own cup--slightly more sugar and cream--he shrugs. "If you want me to tell you what limits are required for ethical use while still protecting Teresa or your town, I can, but it won't help."

"Don't become a monster," she says gloomily. "That's really all you got?"

He turns his cup between his hands and remembers the expression on Dean's face when he realized who'd drawn the Devil's trap on the ceiling of Dean's cabin. 

"The worst sins," he says slowly, "are those you commit for which payment, when it comes due, will not be made by you. Be very sure what you do is worth what other people will pay for you, even if they do so freely and without regret."

Alison winces, looking away. "So sayeth Castiel of Chitaqua."

Her pensive expression makes him curious. "You can't possibly be pondering the nature of good and evil as it relates to strangers; this is more personal."

She straightens. "You think I don't care about strangers and their privacy?"

"No, or at least, not enough to consider your potential for being a monster, especially simply for examining them on the level of 'mood'," he retorts, raising an eyebrow at her scowl. "Personal, but not too personal, something you haven't done but may want to: please, stop me when I'm wrong, and I notice you haven't."

"Christ," she mutters, setting her half-empty cup back on the table with a muted thump. "You're gonna be here for a few days after the party, right? The big meeting and everything."

"Yes." They'll actually be staying two weeks, but Dean has decided for his own ineffable reasons that this would be an excellent opportunity to see how well Vera and Joseph work together. The plan, such as it is, is to tell them that they're in command of Chitaqua just before they leave for Chitaqua and then quickly wave goodbye. He's absolutely certain that will work very, very well, at least until he and Dean return to Chitaqua. "Why?"

"I think I need a consultation," she says, resting her head on one hand. "Kids."

"The ones left here by the human infiltrators." She nods grimly. "You're having problems with them?"

"This is more…theoretical. Or something, I don't know." She looks at him hopefully. "Day after the meeting good for you?"

He nods, curious. "Of course. Can you be more specific, at least?"

"Easier to show than tell, and I need them for that," she explains, drawing absent circles on the surface of the table. "Glen asked me for an evaluation last week, and between what happened to them and them grieving for their parents, it's a mess. I don't want to invade their privacy, but some of the older ones…."

"Glen is worried about them," he finishes for her. "They're hostile?"

"That's a word for it," she says wryly. "Pissed as hell, can't blame 'em for that. The oldest two….they're kids, I have to keep reminding myself of that. Way too much, Cas."

"Mood?" She nods, mouth tight. "What are you sensing?"

"If they were adults, a long drive with a ration pack anywhere but here," she answers, unconsciously echoing Dean when talking about Cynthia. "And instruction to patrol with pictures attached to give one warning if they see them again." She closes her eyes. "Thirteen and twelve, Cas, and I still have Glen and Serafina doing random checks to make sure they don't have--or haven't made--any weapons. They think I’m crazy. _I_ think I’m crazy."

"Being here probably isn't helping."

"We've been talking to the other towns, but I don't want them to feel like we're throwing them out, either. If they go, it has to be because they want to, not because they think that they're not wanted. The last thing they need is more people treating them like they're disposable."

"Are they wanted here?" he asks, watching Alison carefully. "Before you answer, I have every confidence in your town's treatment of the children, but how you feel about them isn't under your control. You, of all people, must be aware of how much disparity there is between what is done and what is felt."

Alison considers her answer. "Yes and no, and that goes for both the adults and the kids, by the way. Especially with the younger ones--no one sane can hold a grudge there. I think they'll be okay, we're giving them all the time and attention they need. The older ones, though--I think it might be better, for them, not to live in the place their parents died, along with seeing--seeing the people responsible for their deaths."

"You mean Dean." While Dean's aware of his actions preceding his encounter with the demon in the courtyard (and for that matter, has read the reports), his memories aren't entirely clear either in content or chronology, and the ones involving the demon missing altogether. "Alison--"

"What was done in defense of the town is shared, Cas," she interrupts. "Dean avoiding the daycare isn't gonna change what happened. Which from your expression you didn't know about."

He hesitates. "He's currently at the headquarters you gave us for our time here, assuring everyone is aware of their responsibilities."

"And last time he was here, it was lack of time." Alison raises an eyebrow, not without sympathy. "Bet he believed it himself. You can tell him--when he's ready to listen, because no way will this not come up--that we're not making any decision without a lot of thought for all involved. If we send those kids to Harlin or Noak or Andale or Mount Hope, it'll be because it's best for them, and to people they know want them. Glenn and Serafina have been screening potential permanent guardians, and I checked them myself before we even got to the introduction phase."

"Have you had many volunteers?"

Alison's stern expression softens. "That's never been a problem; we like kids. We should have most of them placed by the end of next month if not earlier. The older ones, though…." She stares at the table, expression darkening. "I get it--I mean, making a deal with a demon, that part I get, but not using their kids like this. There were no guarantees of anything once they infected themselves with Croatoan, and best case scenario was their kids would survive and have to live with what they'd done in the same town their parents betrayed. What the _hell_ is worth that?"

"That may be the only part of this that makes sense," he answers after a moment of though. "This town--by your own efforts--is known to take in children who need homes. It's the reason that they came to this town in the first place, because you'd taken in the children from the church. Their actions were execrable, but at least they could be certain that after they died, their children would be safe."

"Hoisted on our own petard, you mean." 

"Being people," he replies, thinking of Dean. "You're very good at it."

She rolls her eyes, but the set look fades. "In the spirit of continuing as we began, then. I could use your help to figure out what to do about the older kids, give Glenn some insight on what they need. I don't want to be invasive, but I'm at the end of what I know that's not, and maybe you can give me some ideas of what to do next. If there is anything."

"Are they a threat?" Alison doesn't pretend either shock or surprise: a relief. "Just because they're children doesn't mean they're not dangerous, and adolescents combine emotional instability with poor impulse control. Their grief and anger are understandable and allowances made for that, but that doesn't mean steps shouldn't be taken if they are or will become a danger to themselves or others."

"What would you do?"

"Increase supervision, assure there's always a responsible adult with them that understands what to watch for, and don't let them leave the daycare or their current homes unaccompanied. I'd also consult with Naresh." He sees by Alison's expression that's exactly what she wants to do. "He handles the town's internal conflicts, and this would fall under his responsibilities, I assume."

"We call him 'sheriff'." She gives him a thoughtful look. "So, clarification: I'm reasonable or we're both crazy?"

"Which will reassure you enough to take the appropriate action?"

"Oh, I'm doing it either way."

"Then I'm not sure and don't care," he answers. "Speak to their caretakers regarding your concerns as well, though I can't see how they could be unaware of potential problems. I assume Glen and Serafina are closely supervising whoever they live with at this time?"

"They are," she says. "Which is probably the only reason Glen hasn't told me to fuck myself on top of thinking I'm crazy. He likes kids, but he's as worried as I am. Just not the same _way_."

"Good," he agrees, finishing his coffee reluctantly. "So--"

"Got any plans for the afternoon?"

"I should go assist Dean in terrifying our soldiers more," he admits. "But he enjoys it so much, I hate to interfere, and apparently uncontrolled laughter counts."

"Blow it off," she suggests, getting to her feet. "Come back to my place, we'll do our thing, then you can pick up the thing that you asked Amanda to find someone to fix for a present for someone--can't imagine who--and she asked me how to do that."

He straightens. "You found someone?"

"I know people," she says smugly. "Wanna see?"


	2. Chapter 2

_\--Day 150, continued--_

"Now this," Dean says happily from his seat on top of the picnic table, "is a party."

Amanda, seated correctly on the bench beside Vera, cranes her neck to look at him, then at Castiel. "He's been very excited about this since Alison conveyed her invitation," he explains.

"What is _wrong_ with you people?" Dean asks without heat, taking a drink and slapping Castiel on the knee, hand lingering for a few moments longer than strictly necessary. "You, my friend, need to loosen up." 

As the music starts again from the battered stereo that someone had hooked to what appears to be a growing colony of mismatched speakers, Dean gives him a speculative look.

"What?"

"Wanna dance?"

"No." For many reasons, not least of which is just looking at the constantly shifting crowd is causing possibly literal vertigo. Surveying the people currently leaping about to something nothing like a beat, the only question is when the first injury will occur, not if. Watching Mira steering James and Nate away from disaster as they twitch discordantly is stressful enough. "Absolutely not."

"Coward," Dean murmurs in his ear before bouncing up, reaching for a startled Amanda and pulling her to her feet. "Come on."

Amanda gives Castiel a comically alarmed look. 

"Keep your hands above the waist," he tells her, causing a burst of laughter from the people on the tables surrounding them. Dean half-turns to grin at him before getting lost in the crowd, and Castiel shakes his head, finishing his cup and after a moment of thought, taking Dean's.

"How much has he had to drink anyway?" Vera mutters, settling down beside him as Sean and Zack tentatively join Dean and Amanda. 

"Not very much," he answers. "He wishes to model appropriate behavior for our social activities. I think."

Vera snorts, finishing her cup with a grimace. "That won't last past getting some decent liquor. Which this isn't."

He looks at the less than inspiring contents of his own cup before taking a polite drink, as it's important to show community spirit and validate the efforts of people trying new things and not pour it upon the ground and demand to know what was used to create something that is not by any stretch of the imagination ale.

Turning his attention to the street dance in progress, he searches for Dean and Amanda in the growing crowd, the hard beat of the current musical selection pounding through the ground strongly enough for him to feel it vibrating the wood of the table. The constant movement makes it hard to keep Dean in view even when he finds him, vanishing behind laughing groups and between other couples dancing with something that might be rhythm (though usually isn't). Faintly, he sees Amanda looking surprised that Dean is a very good dancer--or perhaps, he reflects, at the pauses to bang his head to the beat--and fights down the urge to laugh. 

The entire length of what had been Third Street has been appropriated for the celebration, the western end designated as the official entrance area, where new arrivals drop off their passengers before making their way around Ichabod to the adhoc parking just southeast of the northern fields. 

It's odd; he walked the streets of Babylon at the height of her power, observed the rise of Damascus and Carthage, Athens and Memphis and Alexandria and Rome, Constantinople before its conquest and Istanbul after, Fes and Tokyo and Berbera and New York and Nairobi, Mumbai and Seoul and Jakarta and São Paulo and Baghdad; they were, are, will be again (would have been; no _will be_ ) centers of culture and knowledge and power, straddling the world entire. Yet he finds one single half-mile of asphalt populated with celebrants of the New Year almost overwhelming; they settle nowhere, constantly engaged in perpetual journeys from one side of the street to the other individually or worse, in groups, for no reason he can fathom and are apparently incapable of doing so at any volume lower than 'loud'.

Not that it isn't interesting, it is; observing their migration patterns from a safe distance, he only wonders why he didn't ever notice before. Yes, he was often on missions that required swift action, but on the other hand, he could also travel in time and rewind reality when needed if he missed something interesting; it's not as if it were difficult.

"Cas?"

Glancing at Vera, he shakes himself; it seems he must be content with infinite knowledge rather than experience, which are absolutely nothing alike. "Yes?"

"Come on," she says, sliding off the bench and jerking her head toward one of the many providers of alcohol (as well as food) that now fill most of the easternmost block of Third (and probably Dean's primary motivation for choosing these seats). "Refill time."

Following her isn't easy when there are so many people carrying food and snacks to impede easy navigation, and she finally sighs, ducking under his arm, one hand on his hip for steering purposes. 

"Don’t tell Dean," she says with a grin, the smells of cooking meat drifting toward them from what feels like every direction but seems to concentrate in two of the buildings on the northern side of the street and the alley behind them. Fortunately, when invitations are extended and accepted between the communities, it's traditional to provide supplies, which Amanda referred to as the most awesome version of a potluck she's ever see. Glancing up at him, Vera's grin widens, probably at his distraction. "Not a lot of parties since you Fell?"

"Other than my own?" he asks, unable to stop looking around, following one laughing group as more visualize at the end of the street, new arrivals hailed with shouts and wolf-whistles, and he's not actually sure the amount of space in this street should be enough to hold all of them. His reference points include two dinner parties in Ichabod and Insert Winter Celebration at Chitaqua, which give him very little to work in terms of experience. "Is this typical of a human celebration?"

She makes a see-saw gesture with one hand. "I grew up in a small town, so street dances on the Fourth and New Year were pretty common. Not to mention the annual chili cook-off. Oh, and every year Dad would take us to see Gramma and attend the annual Rattlesnake Show and Rodeo in Taylor." She sighs, looking nostalgic. "I always wanted to compete in the bagging competition."

"Bagging…?"

"Rattlesnakes," she answers. "Just you, a bag, and every rattler you could want. Winner gets the most bagged."

Where to even start. "Historically, handling serpents has always been an honored caste in human cultures, but I can honestly state that historically, no culture that I can remember created a competitive sporting event devoted to putting venomous examples of such in bags. A creative form of execution, an obscure test of manhood, proof of divine favor, demonstration of magical influence over the animal kingdom, deeply unsettling sexual fetish, projectile weapon in marine warfare--" 

Vera stops short. " _What?_ Snakes as projectile weapons? How?"

"They placed snakes in pots and catapulted them to the opposing ship," he explains. "Effectively an early form of chemical warfare as well, but autonomous and rather unhappy about being confined to a pot."

"I didn't even know my nightmares were missing something," she muses. "That'd be it."

"Much different than putting them into bags as a competitive sport," he agrees, but the sarcasm seems to escape her as she shakes herself before pulling him into motion as they maneuver through the crowd. 

Looking around again, he notes the stationary groups gathering between stalls or on blankets on the sidewalks where vendors have yet to colonize, but inexplicably also congregating in the middle of the street for no reason other than seemingly to assure the slowest possible progress for anyone trying to get to or from the vendors. How they can hear anything considering the sheer number of conversations being conducted, some very loudly, is a mystery.

"So all of this is normal human behavior when in large groups?"

"Oh yeah," Vera says, coming to a stop at the end of what he eventually realizes is an actual line of people for cups of a beverage contained in alarmingly anonymous brown earthenware containers displayed on several folding tables as well as underneath it. Seeing where his gaze is fixed, Vera snickers. "Cas, you and Joe both _learned to make alcohol_ when we settled in Chitaqua. You think you're the only ones who figured out how to make do without commercial options?"

"No," he answers, watching a cup being filled with a cloudy grey liquid and handed to a person who inexplicably decides it should be drunk immediately. "However, I would like to know what they were making do _with_ and why it's that color."

"No one's died yet," she says encouragingly. "So, we were talking about parties?"

"Before I Fell, my experience with human gatherings tended to be in bars and truck stops, which by nature were very specific in activity and reason for attendance."

"What about at Alpha or the other camps?" she asks, scanning the area around them. "First hunter boot camp full of traumatized people: that's what humans call party time."

He bites back the automatic answer that he had more important things to do than attend gatherings. His Grace was trickling away with every passing hour, and what he'd be left with afterward was a question with no known answer. It's both true and still not the answer to the question she's actually asking.

Before he can find a non-committal response, however, Vera abruptly pulls him to the right, past several waiting groups chatting with those manning another makeshift bar and toward the doorway of one of the buildings, where he sees Haruhi urgently gesturing to them before disappearing into the darkened interior. 

"Vera," he says in confusion as she eagerly mounts the concrete sidewalk, "why are we--"

"Shh," she hisses, giving him a glare before pulling him inside and closing the door. The brief darkness is almost immediately broken by a small lamp creating a circle of warm yellow. "Thanks," Vera is saying, taking the lamp. "You two already know each other, right?"

"Yes," he agrees as Haruhi crouches to retrieve a canvas bag from the floor, the sound of tinkling from within clearly audible. "What are you--"

"Shh," Haruhi says, glaring up at him before taking the lamp back and handing the bag to Vera. Flipping it open, Vera smiles at the contents before closing the flap almost reverently and hefting it over one shoulder. "Six bottles," she confirms, crossing her arms. "Per my deal with Amanda. You want more, I'm willing to negotiate."

Smoothing her hand protectively over the bag, Vera cocks her head. "What'd she trade?"

"One case of Joe Beer and a quarter bottle of something that put me on my ass so fast I'm still seeing vapor trails," Haruhi admits, thin black eyebrows drawing together in thought. "I'm pretty sure she told me what it was called, but could have been talking to my shoes by that point. After class," she adds belated, giving Castiel a wary look. "Of course."

"He got us high during class," Vera says dryly. "Necessary combat skills."

Castiel ignores Haruhi's hopeful 'So what week do we do that again?'; he recognizes that particular reaction. "Eldritch Horror."

"That," Haruhi agrees, then blinks slowly. "You made that unholy nightmare and named it in honor of the Lovecraftian mythos. Of course you did. I thought that conversation was a hallucination."

"It probably was," he answers. "Dean actually named it." Watching her face, he decides this is very likely the beginnings of a negotiation and now understands why Dean insisted that they bring a portion of his limited supply. "You didn't enjoy it?" 

"Didn't say that," Haruhi answers casually. "You got any more available for trade?"

He glances toward four bottles near the wall, one of which is a rare bottle of once commercially available and extremely expensive vodka. "It's possible." he considers Haruhi's carefully neutral expression. "What do you have in whiskey?"

She smiles up at him. "Let's find out."

* * *

The negotiations don't take long, and Vera volunteers to go to the jeep to obtain four of the bottles hidden beneath the false bottom of the jeep concealed by their weapons when Castiel demonstrated to her satisfaction that he understood the principles of bargaining (it does help to know one is doing it). 

On their return with four bags, one of which Vera acquired from one of the other vendors with the promise of its safe return, Dean has not only returned to the table but is watching the dancers with a vague expression of displeasure while Amanda and Mark look tense. Dean's the first to see them, lowering his cup and studying them intently, green eyes unreadable.

"Hey!" Amanda says brightly, taking the opportunity to slide off the table with almost excessive eagerness, glancing at their bags before she and Vera exchange an indecipherable look that makes Vera bite her lip and look up at Castiel with something between amusement and worry before handing her bag to Amanda and taking one of Castiel's. "We were wondering where you disappeared to."

Dean finishes his cup and sets it on the table beside him before smiling at them, showing a surprising number of teeth. "So what have you two been up to?"

"Engaged in a very successful negotiation," Castiel answers in satisfaction, crossing to the table as Amanda, having finally investigated the bag Vera gave her, lets out a low whistle. Climbing up on the table, he proffers his remaining bag. "At least, I assume it was. Vera seemed to think so."

"Really." Dean's eyes flicker to Vera before looking down at the bag, and the unreadable expression melts into curiosity. Glancing at Castiel briefly, he flips back the canvas flap and stills, green eyes widening. "What--"

"Five whiskey, two premium and impossible to get anywhere vodka, three tequila, two of that moonshine that the guys from Bentley are dealing," Vera starts, setting her bag on the end of the table and opening it. "Uh, three rum, five bottles of black currant wine that woman from Mount Hope makes, one strawberry, and--" she pauses, cocking her head at the three ceramic jugs and shrugging. "No idea, but Cas talked to the guy and did a taste test and said they were okay."

"It is," he confirms as Dean reverently lifts out one of the six bottles of whiskey he'd acquired. "However, I wish I hadn't asked what he used to make it."

"Haruhi said it's better not to know," Vera agrees sympathetically, sliding onto the bench at Castiel's feet and efficiently sorts through their acquisitions. "Two bottles of Eldritch Horror in official trade to Ichabod, two under the table to her personally, two more in six months, and an agreement that should we decide to offer it as a trade item, Ichabod gets first option on our supply along with first option on Joe Beer. Cas explained that the process takes a while and the ingredients are hard to get, but he agreed that a limited number could be offered biannually."

Dean tears his gaze from the black label to Castiel, green eyes speculative. As Amanda distracts Vera's attention, he leans closer. "So you never told anyone how you made it?"

"Of course not," he murmurs, taking the bottle from Dean and waiting as he hastily retrieves his cup before continuing. "Experimentation was interesting, but once I'd achieved the desired result, replication was both tedious and extremely boring. Everyone assumed that the limited supply was due to the difficulty and length of time it required, and I felt no particular desire to correct them."

"Fallen angels these days." Shaking his head, he takes a drink, eyes closing in blissful appreciation, before cocking his head. "Why don't you want to dance with me?"

That--isn't the question he expected. "Why do you?"

Dean shrugs, taking another drink. "Good example."

"Of what?" 

"Human experience," Dean says firmly. "Have you ever danced at a street dance? Or anywhere?"

"Pontus, for the entertainment of the court." Dean fumbles his cup. "My vessel was sent as part of a gift to the King from a local satrap in thanks for his assistance in deposing the former ruler," he explains, eyeing the dancers uncertainly. "It was nothing like this; we wore a great deal less and weren't allowed to reveal our faces, though our stomachs were perfectly acceptable. I'm still unclear on why."

Dean cocks his head. "You _danced_ for the King of Pontus?"

"It wasn't lascivious," he answers defensively. "She was highly trained from childhood in her profession."

"Weirdly enough, not my first thought," Dean answers. "Why were you there?"

"I needed access to the harem and she was amenable to assisting me," he replies. "And we were speaking of _your_ desire to dance."

"Because I do." Dean gazes at the dancers, brows knitting together thoughtfully, as if trying to view it as Castiel does, which he realizes is exactly what Dean's doing. "People, right? Too many of 'em?"

That would be it, yes. At this time, the generally low concentration of people in the street makes it easy to avoid undesired attention and undue proximity, but that will be impossible among the dancers if his observation of them so far is any indication. "I enjoy watching."

"What if it was just us out there?" Dean asks. "Someone yells 'demon on the dancefloor', clear it out, what do you think?"

"Perhaps we might wish to avoid mass panic? At least this early the day," he adds, inspired; yes, it's improbable Dean would resort to that, but then again, this is Dean. "The panicked fleeing might leave the food currently cooking unattended and it will burn."

"Point." Dean takes another drink, scowling. "I'll think of something."

Until this moment, Castiel really didn't have any desire to dance, and yet…. "Tell me what you come up with?"

Dean grins at him. "Oh, I will."

* * *

Mark and Leah are charged with the responsibility of caring for Chitaqua's private liquor supply, nodding obediently at Dean's order to protect it with their own lives if necessary. Looking pleased with the flagrant abuse of power, Dean's head snaps around as the smell of cooking meat strengthens, frowning at Amanda's reminder that it will be at least an hour before the time designated for dinner.

"It's a party," Dean says, scowling over the rim of his cup before soothing himself with a long drink. "What kind of party has a scheduled dinner time? Get it out there, first come first serve. Survival of the fittest."

"Kids eat first," Vera offers, straddling the bench with one arm casually draped over Amanda's lap. "Gonna fight them for dibs on the barbecue, fajitas, and samosas?"

Dean ignores her, taking another drink, long fingers having drifted to tapping an impatient rhythm on Castiel's knee. It's not exactly a new development--Dean is tactilely inclined and always has been--but since they arrived in Ichabod today, it's happened several times, and sometimes, Dean briefly forgets to tap at all. "Just saying."

"Two of the towns brought their meat still on the hoof or squacking," Mark says, leaning forward from his seat on Dean's other side. "They still got people working on--"

"Jesus," Dean breathes, covering his face. "Let's not get into the details of how a cow becomes a hamburger, okay?"

"You're a hunter," Vera says incredulously. "You have no problem describing exactly how to dismember a corpse for an easy salt and burn--"

"Not even the same thing."

"-- _while you're kneeling in the blood doing it_ ," she finishes triumphantly, taking a drink as Amanda pats her shoulder, expression rigid though her cheeks are beginning to flush with the effort not to laugh. "But where your food comes from, _that's_ where you draw the line?"

"I don't _eat them_ ," Dean answers defensively, and Amanda makes a sound like a squeezed kitten while Mark stares determinedly at the people dancing, the number having nearly doubled within the last half hour. "Fuck you and shut up. That's an order."

Vera grins maliciously as she opens her mouth to answer, but Castiel leaps boldly into the brief silence. From recent experience, he's learned Dean and Vera can keep this up for some time and while entertaining when focused on each other, there's no guarantee they won't turn on others (him). "Did Jeremy check in with you?"

"He's in the teen building until his shift in HQ with Natalie," Vera says reassuringly. Natalie's attendance was a surprise and not an unpleasant one; while not opposed to social situations, she's very shy, and far prefers bullet making as both avocation and hobby (and is very, very good at it). Turning a wry eye on Dean, she adds, "I warned her not to give him _too_ hard a time if she had to go get him herself. Joelle's really got his attention."

"Warn her those kids started weekly training now that Manuel's got the help?" he asks. "Just saying, I heard one of 'em racked the fuck out of Hans last week."

Castiel tilts his head curiously. "You met Joelle?"

"I did. Seventeen, very polite, tops Jeremy by about half a head, so it's definitely love," she says, grinning. "She's from the Ivory Coast and speaks Baoulé, French, and English. I had no idea that worked on guys, too." Her mouth quirks. "Her mama's one of the chaperones. Don't need to know Baoulé to translate what Maimouna was saying to Joelle and Jeremy about dark corners, though she did make it to the chaperone's break room before she started laughing at least."

So no standing by the wall like a loser, then. "The other adolescents accepted him as part of their peer group?" Vera's books had warned about the psychological effects of rejection by social groups and it was worrying.

"They like him," Vera says reassuringly, exchanging an inexplicably amused look with Dean. "You should stop by later, say hi. Bet he'd love to introduce her."

"That," Dean says, nodding enthusiastically, "is a good idea. We'll do that."

It's a terrible idea--many people, confined space, Jeremy trying to make a good impression and his friends panicking on Castiel's advent won't help--but before he can articulate just how much, Joseph abruptly emerges into view, Kamal just behind him. In the harsh glare of the large outdoor lights that have been placed at regular intervals down the street and supplemented by a mismatched variety of lamps and strings of Christmas lights, both are flushed, coats unbuttoned, with a hint of drying sweat on their faces despite the early evening's just below freezing temperature.

"Whoa." Dean fills two of the cups and hands one to Joseph as he drops wearily on the bench at Dean's feet, passing the other to Kamal. "What the hell, fighting demons or toddlers?"

"Same thing," Amanda says sympathetically as Kamal hip checks Joseph over and sits down. "Hey, anyone seen Alison and Teresa?"

"Circulating and chatting up the masses. They'll be by after dinner," Joseph answers breathlessly, draining his cup in a single swallow. "Needed that," he says in relief. "My back…."

"You were breakdancing, weren't you?" Vera says mockingly, and Dean and Amanda burst into laughter, getting the attention of everyone around them. Or, he realizes, as Dean wipes his eyes and goes back to pouring, that attention is constant, and he's simply noticing it now. "Fuck, Joe, they're like, seventeen. You're _forty_. And a chaperone, for God's sake. Christ, Jeremy's never gonna forgive us for embarrassing him in front of all his new friends."

"And fuck you very much," Joseph answers, twisting around for a glare as well as a refill. "I took out a nest of goddamn vampires with nothing but a Bowie knife and a strong sense of righteousness; those kids got _nothing_."

"Oh, gotta hear this one," Dean says, patting Castiel's leg to get his attention, and he belatedly takes the offered drink, resigning himself to listening to this with a background rhythm as Dean begins to tap absently against his knee. 

As Joseph starts an unlikely story of being alone in the wilderness of downtown Topeka at the very cusp of dusk, Castiel notes the attention of the tables closest to them as well as people drifting closer, some with a selection of mismatched chairs in tow while others simply settle on the asphalt or intact portions of the nearby sidewalks. Erratic bursts of laughter punctuate the description of an improbably attractive vampire (one of ten, all female of course), their leader (of unusually lavish proportions) propositioning him at the onset, and ending with a melodramatic battle punctuated by lightning and a minor earthquake. 

As Joseph finishes, the round of applause and laughter almost drowns out Vera's exclaimed, "Oh you are so fucking lying--!" Dean's head drops against his shoulder, shaking to control his own laughter before straightening and taking a bracing drink.

"Hey," Amanda says with a sudden grin, "you remember when we were in training and Kamal--?"

"What? No!" Kamal says in alarm. "You promised--"

"All's fair in love and drunk confessions."

"You're not drunk," Kamal says accusingly.

"Prove it." She takes a bracing drink, she raises her voice effortlessly to accommodate the growing number of listeners. "So. Exercise our fifth week of training, and--okay, you gotta understand, Cas was like, one more person almost stabbing themselves from killing us himself to make it quick, since no way we were surviving an actual fight."

"You weren't that bad," he disagrees on cue (Amanda's stare is very effective, as is Dean's unnaturally sharp elbow). "I mean you, specifically. And Mark," he remembers when Mark looks up at him with raised eyebrows. "For the rest of you--yes, that was very true. I would have made it quick and painless. It was like a nightmare, and I had to be sober for all of it."

Vera twists around from her lean against Amanda's legs to glare up at him, but it's not as if it's untrue.

"We call it 'The Day of the Siren'," Amanda continues, grinning down at Vera before looking at Castiel expectantly. "Remember, Kamal volunteered, because you said his singing the night before had been exemplary--"

"Fuck my life," Kamal groans, slumping against Joseph's shaking shoulder. "Just, no."

"And impressively explicit as well as obscene," Castiel says, rolling the cup between his hands, aware Dean's tapping has paused again, thumb sketching absent circles on the inside of his knee. "I had no idea Nepalese folk music could be mistaken for a set of very detailed instructions on what to do, where, and for how long. I never asked: was that an offer or simply supposed to be informative?"

Dean shakes his head as Kamal groans again. "You forgot he could understand you."

"Oh yeah," Kamal tells Joseph's jacket, voice muffled. "Translated it for everyone, too. Thanks, Cas."

"It was nothing." Dean snickers, squeezing his knee and distracting Castiel's attention long enough that Amanda is well into the story of Kamal's terrible impression of a siren running bravely away from the other recruits while singing at the top of his lungs. Focusing again, Castiel's aware of the eager attention of those around them--the number of whom seem to be growing exponentially--and glances at Amanda, who is never oblivious to being surrounded, and wonders suddenly why she chose that particular story, and why Kamal's objections hadn't been entirely convincing. "….the next time," she finishes, "Cas was the siren, but he won't sing unless he's drunk, so we all hummed the refrain from Kamal's guide to oral sex."

"I hate you," Kamal says helplessly to the bursts of laughter, and grinning, Dean reaches down and pats him on the arm as Kamal retaliates with a story about Amanda's run-in with a disgruntled dryad and the very green consequences thereof. 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Alicia and her team materialize in the shadows of one of the buildings to their left. None look particularly festive despite the fact this should be well after the end of their shift, and much more ominously, they are still fully and visibly armed.

Amanda follows his gaze, eyes widening, then looks at him, waiting for his nod before sliding smoothly off the table with a smile and murmured comment to Vera, who immediately begins another story, this time about Joseph and his tragic first encounter with bladed weapons. A few moment of quiet conversation, and Amanda turns around, expression telling him that this is something that needs to be handled and now.

Mark and Leah look at him, eyebrows raised, and he gives them a slight nod before turning his attention to Dean. "I'll be back in a moment." Unsurprisingly, Dean flickers a glance at Alicia's team in retreat as he takes a drink; yes, he assumed Dean saw them as well. "It shouldn't take long, but I may need something stronger when I get back."

Dean smiles pleasantly. "I can do that. Make it fast or I'll come and get you--barbecue will be done soon and dude, not to be missed."

* * *

"Hey kids," Amanda says brightly as she opens the door to the partially-repaired three story building that is serving as Chitaqua's headquarters tonight. "How's it going?"

James and Mira blink at her for a moment, James fumbling his cards face-up on the table, though it probably doesn't matter; from the pile of items on Mira's side of the table, whatever game they're playing, he's definitely going to lose. "Good?"

"Are you sure?" Amanda asks seriously, mouth twitching at James's worried expression while Mira closes her eyes, possibly in amazement at the sheer depth of earnestness that James possesses, like a well from which the water is endless. "We need HQ--go hit up Dean for vodka before we run out; he's by the dancing people. Mira, try to get him to dance; he's not bad." 

Belatedly, he realizes they're looking at him for confirmation and nods. James immediately gathers the cards while Mira carefully puts her winnings away and retrieves their coats before vanishing out the door with laudable speed. As soon as they're gone, Alicia and her team come inside, Mark and Leah just behind them, and Amanda shuts and locks the door before joining Castiel.

Castiel leans back against the former poker table; he might as well be comfortable for this. "Report." A thump from overhead makes them all pause, but when it's not repeated, he focuses on Alicia again. "As I was saying."

"Kyle didn't show to relieve my team," Alicia answers, nervously folding her hands behind her back. "I sent Matt, but Kyle--"

"--said if Alicia wanted him, she could get him herself," Matt bursts out, pushing shaggy brown hair from his eyes, and immediately winces at Alicia's glare. "Sorry."

It was such a pleasant evening until now, he reflects morosely. "What about his team?"

"Not their fault." Alicia shifts her weight uncomfortably, frowning up at the ceiling at the sound of another thump, before sighing, waving at Matt. "Go ahead."

"He got in with some stoners from Andale earlier and won't leave," Matt says acidly. "That's why his team's sticking with him. He's been a dick pretty much all day and they're worried what he'll do if someone's not watching."

"Why would he…." Noting Alicia's averted eyes and faint flush, he just manages not to close his eyes in sheer disbelief. "Who's currently on patrol?"

"Manuel called up one of his teams to help," Alicia answers depressingly, because obviously, this is an excellent way to make a good impression. She tips her head toward the door before another thump jerks all their attention to the ceiling again. "Uh--do you want us take another shift?"

"No, go upstairs and disarm until your next duty shift. Also, find out what that is." As they make their way to the stairs, he turns to Mark and Leah. "Get Kyle and his team here in the next ten minutes, and provided they're still breathing, I won't be particular on how you do it."

"Got it," Leah says, turning toward the door before hesitating. "Uh, if Dean asks…."

"Don't let him see you so he can't," Castiel answers carefully and is rewarded by sighs of audible relief. "Also, find Sidney and bring him with you. I think he's with Tony and the engineers; apparently Tony and Sidney's mother share an alma mater and this is very exciting for reasons." Mark nods, exchanging a surprised look with Leah on their way to the door. As it closes behind them, he stares at Amanda's averted face. "Tell me it's not what I think it is."

"How high you were when the Kat-Kyle Deathmatch went down last year?" He winces; there weren't enough drugs in the world to block out that particularly hellish week, when he learned more about human relationships than he ever wanted to know. Hopping up on the other side of the table, she braces her hands against the unfinished surface, ignoring the thump above them. "Like that, but Alicia's not shy about using her lungs to the best of her abilities. Last night through early this morning, from what I heard, but no visible wounds on he who ran bravely away."

"How is Alicia?"

Amanda stiffens. "She's a pro, Cas. Not her fault Kyle's got issues--"

"Of course not," he interrupts impatiently. "I simply wanted to assure she wasn't upset unduly. Why didn't someone--"

"Tell you Kyle and Alicia broke up?" Amanda finishes incredulously. "Maybe because it's none of your goddamn business?"

"Yes, of course: the personal certainly has no effect on the professional, how foolish of me." Amanda blinks at him, startled, but before she can argue, he shakes his head, wondering if he should have let Dean handle this after all, even if it partially negates Castiel's entire purpose. "I have no desire to intrude on anyone's personal life, of course, but a warning would have been appreciated considering Kyle's general reaction to romantic disappointment."

"We have personal lives?" she asks wryly, blowing out a breath. "I only found out a few hours ago from Mira, who heard the entire nightmare go down next door. I didn't think about how that would play out here."

"I wouldn't have, either." Kyle's behavior isn't unknown to either of them, but that he'd feel the need to perform his tragic heartbreak here, of all places.... "Now we both know."

"You didn't notice anything this morning?" she asks. "Not like Alicia hides her feelings. Ever."

He tries to remember this morning other than in terms of sexual frustration when Joseph's maliciously rapid return of the jump drive interrupted a very satisfactory make-out session on the couch with an extremely enthusiastic Dean. It seems that Dean can easily be reconciled to early mornings provided sufficient motivation, and Castiel can easily be distracted by Dean breathing in his general vicinity.

"No." Forcing himself to think past Dean--it's becoming increasingly more difficult to even want to--he thinks about the gathering this morning of those coming to Ichabod. He was vaguely aware Alicia didn't seem enthusiastic, but he had other things (Dean) on his mind.

Kyle being punished (with what he suspects was a genuinely terrifying night in Alicia's cabin as well as the loss of Alicia's company, with permanent prejudice) is reasonable for whatever he did to upset her, true, but he can't quite reconcile the fact that he's being punished as well. He has to be the one to discipline Kyle for--of _all_ things--being late for duty and refusing his orders to report for duty (and therefore _technically_ avoiding 'being high while actively on duty', true, but that's no comfort at all).

"You're remembering yourself in his position, aren't you?"

Startled, he looks at Amanda. "Now I am, though granted, I abstained before and during missions," he admits, frowning at another thump followed by Andy's voice sounding--he's not sure what that is. "Which isn't in any way a standard that should be difficult to meet. And yet, here we are."

"Risa told us stories about the team leaders' meetings," she says conversationally; of course she did. He'd only be surprised if she didn't perform them for Vera and Amanda's amusement (and wishes he could have watched). "Forty-two synonyms for 'wrong' in descending order by number of syllables? She said she wasn't sure whether Dean was gonna kill you or himself."

He sighs. "It was less than that; Dean dismissed the meeting before I finished those with three syllables in English." And now he's supposed to pass judgment on Kyle for doing far less than he ever has and not be struck dead by the sheer hypocrisy of it. For not only shall you pay for your sins, he thinks resentfully, but other people's as well, and it's not as if Alicia's in any way reticent about sharing her expectations with her partners both thoroughly and at length to avoid any potential for misunderstanding. If stupidity isn't a sin, it should be.

The pensive silence (thumpless, at least) stretches to the point that he's almost relieved at the sound of Alicia and her team coming back down the stairs. Disarming is a relative term, of course; Manuel and Teresa's only restriction was the one that also held for Ichabod's teams, that no firearms or overly long bladed weapons be visible to upset civilians (so rifles and machetes were to be avoided).

Turning, he notes in approval that the only weapon visible is a knife (perfectly acceptable, since more than one person he saw on the streets today carried that much by habit), all of them having tucked their handguns into a shoulder holster that will be easily hidden by their coats. Despite recent events, a surprisingly number accepted this year's invitation, which Alison put down to being as much for the party (and food) as open curiosity regarding the people that helped Ichabod kill a thousand Croats in a single hour.

("And ten demons," Alison told him gleefully, almost bouncing in place at the kitchen table. "All with giant teeth and eight feet tall. Maybe breathing fire.")

Seeing them (or, he thinks uncomfortably, probably just him) watching, Alicia hesitates as she reaches the foot of the stairs, and he quickly looks back at the front door. From the corner of his eye, he sees Matt murmur something that makes her smile reluctantly before they cross back to him and Amanda. Andy, on the other hand, seems to be trying to hide behind Jody and looks suspiciously flushed; this being Andy, he thinks he can guess the origin of the thumping.

"Who was it?" he asks curiously.

Matt bites his lip. "Gary and Laura are having their extended reunion on the third floor now. Andy took care of it."

Castiel thankfully has no idea what on earth they're doing that could be making that much noise and rigidly controls the images that try to helpfully display themselves; why does the mind do that?

"Your sacrifice is appreciated," he tells Andy's haunted expression before focusing on Alicia. "Check in every hour with whoever is on duty here for any potential changes to the duty roster. Until your next shift, enjoy yourselves. There's barbecue, fajitas, and samosas, or so I've been told." He nods at Amanda before hopping up on the table; he might as well be comfortable for this. "Please get the door."

Looking inordinately cheerful, Amanda crosses the room and opens the door, nodding to Mark before stepping back and Mark shoves Kyle inside. Kyle's surprise is as obvious as his planned swaggering entrance is preempted by a most ungraceful stumble at the sight of Alicia. Before he can recover, Amanda efficiently strips him of his weapons, because Dean apparently took the incident with Sidney as some sort of lesson, and they should discuss this very soon.

Kyle doesn't seem to notice, however; his eyes never leave Alicia, following her progress with unnerving attention until she's escaped out the door. Finished, Amanda nods at Mark, waiting just beyond the threshold with Kyle's team and Sidney, and waits for them before closing and locking the door behind them. Joining Castiel, she leans against the edge of the table, crosses her arms, and looks at the assembled group sternly. So at least she's having fun, which makes one of them.

Standing alone in the middle of the room, Kyle visibly proceeds through several types of denial before almost reaching realization and making what looks like a deliberate effort to pretend he has no idea what's happening or why. "What's going on?"

Amanda was correct; he remembers quite well being in Kyle's position, with Dean looking at him with an expression that at the time he hadn't wanted to understand. The monologue that followed was tedious, but later--much later--what lingered was the frustration and disappointment so strong that the anger had almost been an afterthought. If that was supposed to be a lesson to be carried to the future--to this moment--he can't imagine what he's supposed to do with it or how to apply it. 

He thinks: what would Dean do--I know this one; _I’m disappointed, you're useless, why do you do this, what's wrong with you, why are you like this?_ What it lacked in originality it made up for in sincerity. It wouldn't still hurt to remember it if he hadn't known that Dean meant every word he said.

He doesn't like Kyle, and while Kyle doesn't hate him, it's only because they don't know each other well enough for the depth of feeling that would require. He trained Kyle, which means a surprising amount, but he trained Luke and the other team leaders as well, and he'd killed Luke without hesitation. Luke, however, was part of a group bent on assassination, while Kyle simply made a mistake under personal emotional duress and didn't choose his place or time very well (read: actively chose the worst possible time currently available). 

To Dean, that might not have mattered; to this Dean, however, that distinction matters very much, and to his own surprise, it does to him as well.

"Kyle, you are removed from Chitaqua's patrol, effective immediately," he says, thinking of how the Dean Winchester he once served under would have handled this, how this Dean would, and finally, how he thinks he may want to. If he's wrong, it will be a useful learning experience, at least. "Christina," he says as he turns toward Kyle's former team, biting back his own amusement at her sudden jump and Henry and Rob's unconcealed apprehension, "the team is provisionally yours, as you've shown both competence and leadership skills, according to Kyle's admittedly short evaluations of his team members. After two weeks spent on local patrol, and with Dean's approval, it will be made permanent provided your performance is satisfactory." 

She nods, looking startled, but he focuses on Sidney, who has--to quite literally everyone's surprise--improved immensely. Sheila's reports have been glowing, and while Sheila is generally a positive person who sees the good in all creatures (not brownies, of course), there was a short period of time when finding Sidney's body in a not necessarily empty oil barrel was a real possibility. He's also become a superlative shot with their entire arsenal, but with Jane tutoring him, he'd expect no less.

"Sidney, do you feel that you're ready to rejoin patrol?" he asks, genuinely curious. That everyone in Chitaqua can fight doesn't mean all of them necessarily have a natural inclination for it, or for the monotony of regular patrol, and under Dean, the camp's hierarchy doesn't give those on patrol a higher status than those who aren't. "Your progress with Jane and several other members of Chitaqua on the training field has been exemplary, and the team leaders who had you as a substitute for their regular members have spoken well of your performance. This is an open offer; if you don't wish to do so now, more teams will be created as our numbers increases, and experienced members will be needed then as well."

To his credit, Sidney considers it, possibly remembering a certain bridge and his failure then, and whether he wants to risk failure again this soon. "Yes," he says finally, looking surprised (at the offer, at himself, at how on earth this could possibly be happening at a party in Ichabod; yes, he knows the feeling). "I am."

"I'm appointing you to Christina's team tonight with the same restrictions: provided your performance is satisfactory after two weeks on local, the assignment is permanent. Christina, your duties begin tonight; please report to Manuel after you leave here. Afterward, check the schedule regularly for your duty shifts while in Ichabod in case there are further chnages." Christina and Sidney nod in unison. "You're dismissed."

"You can't do that," Kyle says belligerently, and in his peripheral vision, he sees Sidney wince, pained, as Christina and her team hurry out. "I want to talk to Dean."

"You can't seriously think this would go better if he was here," Castiel tells him blankly. Kyle's expression tells him that somewhere in the sane part of his mind, he actually knows that. "What did you think was going to happen? Dean's rules for those attending the celebration were extremely specific and almost mind-numbingly thorough. We need this agreement with the communities, and any deviation that could damage our relationship with them--I don't actually know what he'll do, and it's better for all of us that we don't find out. Especially you. Though I have to live with him, so my concern here is also personal."

"Like you never fucked off," Kyle mutters, and he has to give him points for courage, or at least obtuseness in the face of disaster. "What's the difference?"

"I've also participated in the wholesale destruction of entire countries, several major extinction events, and multiple acts of genocide both global and species-specific, including yours," he retorts and has the satisfaction of watching Kyle jerk in horror, though the sound Amanda makes seems suspiciously similar to a giggle. "What does that have to do with anything? I'll still look upon anyone engaging in serial murder on earth with great disapproval and act according to the tenets of justice and yet--somehow--reconcile the dissonance with very little effort. You joined Chitaqua of your own free will and remain by your own choice; it's not as if this is the first time anyone has mentioned the rights and responsibilities of continued membership. If it is, then the question must be asked: do you want to leave?"

Kyle stares at him; it's not a rhetorical question. "What? No! I--"

"Then like everyone else in Chitaqua, when you disobey your orders, you will be subject to discipline consummate with your offense." He leans back and crosses his arms, keeping his expression impassive no matter what utterly inappropriate (and thankfully nearly inaudible for human ears) noises that Amanda makes. "Your decision of course; I'll wait."

Not surprisingly, it doesn't take very long. 

"So what's my assignment now?" Kyle asks dejectedly, swallowing hard before adding, "Shit duty with Cyn?" 

The look on his face suggests wild dogs ripping him apart would be preferable, which is understandable. Cynthia's begun to consider everyone, even former friends and team members, enemies to be vanquished by the strength of her tongue and blandly inedible meals. The most recent incident--an argument with Brenda two days ago--unfortunately (for Cynthia) occurred when Dean was in the mess getting more sugar and led to a private discussion of some length between Dean and Cynthia in the new walk-in refrigerator. 

Though the exact nature of the conversation is something of a question (the doors were depressingly thick, though Brenda did try), it resulted in Dean restricting Cynthia to her cabin when not on duty in waste maintenance under Dane's watchful (and unforgiving) eye with a surprisingly large supply of shovels for her personal use and no discernible improvement in her general mood.

(As an example of the complexity of human social structures in an isolated group, it was both unsettling in scope and rapid in progress. Cynthia's restriction (very unsurprisingly) led to a request from Jane to move in with Kim (granted), causing Kat and Andy's cohabitation dreams to be put on hold for cabin availability (very unhappy, loudly), which in itself would have been bad enough, but no. Sidney (along with Brian) were offended on their romantic partners' behalf (nearly as loudly), Alicia and Amber were offended on their roommate's (Brenda) behalf (very loudly indeed), and it continued from there like a virus composed of ill-will and spread by word of mouth that as of this morning infected almost everyone in the camp. 

All due, he reflects incredulously, to an argument between two people over chicken (with or without peas) in the mess.)

He could have wanted Kyle dead and still not hated him that much.

"You violated the standard set for our behavior in Ichabod, and it seems fair to station you here in recompense. I'm assigning you to Amanda to help with her students and Kamal to help Ichabod's residents with the duties that losing twenty of their number have made difficult to fulfill in town. Amanda and Kamal's evaluation of your performance will be a deciding factor in whether you return to the patrol teams at all, much less as a team leader. Considering you were unexpectedly good at it, I'd prefer you assure they're satisfied. With the new recruits, we will need experienced patrol members as well as leaders, and you are both."

Looking surprised (and very relieved), Kyle nods. 

"Dean will doubtless wish to speak to you tomorrow himself, so report to me no later than ten tomorrow morning so he has time for coffee and to think of what he'd like to tell you." Kyle's face drains of color, as if he belatedly realizes just how much worse this could have been (and for that matter, will be tomorrow morning). "I'll inform Robert to check with you before he returns to Chitaqua to pack whatever you need for your residency here and have it brought to you."

"Yes, sir," Kyle answers, unprompted, and looks vaguely horrified by the honorific. "Is there anything else?"

"Yes, there is. Mark, Leah," Castiel says, "please tell Dean I'll be along shortly. You may go."

He waits until the door is shut before looking at Kyle again, taking in the perfectly normal pupils and utter lack of swaying. "Please tell me you didn't do this to get Alicia's attention."

Kyle stills, eyes widening; yes, that's what he thought.

"I'd far prefer to think you exercised terrible judgment than deliberately ignored your duties tonight. The first is stupid but understandable; emotional distress can make people do foolish things, and combining that with alcohol and drugs can lead to poor decision making. The second, however, would display not only a very questionable taste for manipulation, but a deliberate choice to prioritize your personal life over your duty to the detriment of both."

Unsurprisingly, Kyle doesn't answer.

"I won't ask for details of what occurred last night or if anything occurred at all; that's a personal matter. However, if something did, and if you received a request from anyone that they be left alone, you should respect that request. Unfortunately, I lack confidence in your understanding of appropriate behavior."

Unfortunately, Kyle's expression confirms that lack of confidence is justified.

"The personal lives of Chitaqua's members don't interest me--other than for the entertainment value, of course--until and unless they intersect with their duties or established acceptable rules of behavior," he continues. "That Jane didn't file a formal complaint regarding your behavior after your separation doesn't mean it was generally acceptable. Chitaqua is small, there aren't that many places to go, and Jane didn't care; at this time, two of those things are most definitely not true. Ichabod is much larger, and there are many places for you to go."

"Cas--" Kyle starts, jaw set in misguided determination.

"Dean's rules regarding our behavior in Ichabod include the inadvisability of any of our members engaging in an altercation with each other, especially an altercation caused by one member reacting impulsively to being followed by another member despite her very clear request, if such a request was made," he says, watching Kyle's face for some indication he's paying attention or if he's being too subtle. "All participants will be disciplined, of course, but yours will be a second offense tonight. I don't know what discipline is required for a second offense--since first I'll have to make it up--but it will definitely include permanent exclusion from both regular patrol and watch as well as utter misery for the offending party for as long as it amuses me to watch their suffering. Please keep that in mind this evening." He nods toward the door. "Enjoy the party and I'll see you at ten at Alison's. You're dismissed."

There's a fraught moment where it looks as if Kyle might argue, but he nods shortly, stalking (much more soberly, at least) toward the door and not quite slamming it shut behind him. 

"So," Amanda starts in the too-brief silence.

"Unofficially, tell Alicia we don't have any other people fit to be team leaders to replace her, so please make a formal complaint instead of beating Kyle to death if she sees him, yes," he agrees, closing his eyes. "As soon as possible, as I don't know how much of that Kyle actually understood and I have to be non-partisan and objective in meting discipline because justice is supposed to be blind, whatever that means."

"He understood," she says reassuringly. "In this case, ego's gonna win; he won't fuck up his only shot at getting back on patrol."

He glances at her curiously. "As current commander of our members stationed in Ichabod--"

"We need a better name."

"Think of one, then." He frowns at the closed door. "It's very strange to be the one to mete out discipline to others rather than endure it."

"You mean from Dean?"

"And the Host," he says, raising his eyebrows at her expression. "Rebellion wasn't my first or last offense, just the most dramatic. So how did I do tonight?"

"Seven, eight out of ten." She raises a hand in a see-saw gesture. "The speech was great, lots of food for guilt, which he's pretty susceptible to, believe it or not. You do good disappointment but hope for future improvement." She slants him an amused look. "Really familiar, now that I think about it. Not that my ass got called on the carpet like yours did to listen to Dean's version."

"In the Host, disobedience was punished with either re-education or immediate execution, generally the latter." Amanda's eyes widen. "They were amateurs compared to Dean, who would indulge in excessively long and extremely uncomfortable lectures that required a larger than usual amount of alcohol to dull. Not that it worked," either the dulling or the lectures, true, "but I remember which parts would considerably raise the risk of alcohol poisoning."

"Dean didn't bother with a speech with most of us," she says casually, glancing at her boots. "We fuck up, he skipped the sermon and went straight to the sacrifice." Shrugging, she eases up on the table beside him. "He's not like Luke or the other team leaders. Kyle, I mean. He's a dick, but not _that_ kind of a dick." At his surprise, she makes a face. "I learned fast what to look for, believe me."

He supposes she did at that.

"When Risa took over Luke's team, she came to me and assured me that if I became aware of anything untoward before she did, she'd be insulted if I didn't solicit her assistance to remove all of the team leaders this time, and promised to return the favor. I wasn't even high at the time, and it's still the most surreal conversation I can ever remember having. She loathed me, but wouldn't leave until I had agreed."

"She didn't loathe you," Amanda protests, laughter in her voice. "She just hated your drug use, rampant alcoholism, promiscuity, hostility toward anyone in your line of sight, and your groupies waking everyone up during that death metal phase you went through."

"And my behavior toward Dean." 

"Didn't help, at least on the days she didn't want to strangle him herself," Amanda agrees. "I moved in with her a couple of months after I got here, and she was the one that talked Vera into living with us." Legs swinging, she glances at the ceiling idly. "You got points for helping Vera out, you know. She didn't expect that, and it's pretty much why she went to talk to you when Dean asked her to take Luke's team."

Castiel glares at her profile. "I don't even need to ask who told her there was something to tell me."

Amanda rolls her eyes. "Like I was saying, good call with Kyle. He's good at his job--surprised all of us, trust me--and he's not completely stupid. He gets this is a reprieve because we don't have the numbers to afford to lose him; what he doesn't get is he's gonna pay out the ass for the privilege of being almost indispensable. Which is my job now." She smiles brightly, not without malice, then slides off the table. "Ready to get back before Dean comes after us? If we're lucky, dinner might be ready soon and distract him from asking for details."

He nods, following her to the door. As she opens it, he considers that conversation with Vera again. "Did I ever mention the first time I ever attempted to train a hunter?"

"No," she answers, throwing him a curious look as she shoves her hands into her pockets. "Before Chitaqua, you mean?"

"Amieyl's first weapon was a shepherd's crook."

"Whoa. So we're talking a while back." As they fall into step on their way down the street, she says, "Actually, thinking about it, that could do a lot of damage in the right hands."

"It could," he agrees. "If I'd been human the first time we met, it would have hurt a great deal."

Amanda lets out a startled peal of laughter, blue eyes dancing as she deliberately slows her pace, hopeful. "What happened after that?"

"It got better," he tells her, slowing his as well as he measures the distance to their table. "Eventually."

* * *

Despite not being hungry, the battle regarding meals was won a very long time ago, and Castiel doesn't argue being given a plate with a variety of substances to sample, some identifiable (barbecue, beef enchiladas, chicken curry, samosas), some new but not unpleasant (potato salad, lemon rice), some interesting (a spicy vegan dish made with rice and a multitude of vegetables that Sudha, Deepika, and Kishore prepared) and some--

"Are you sure this is food?"

"It's not that bad," Amanda says unconvincingly after sampling a very, very tiny portion. Castiel pokes warily at the quivering mound on his plate, staring in fascination at the chucks of unidentifiable substances trapped within like helpless geometrically shaped insects in amorphous lime-green amber.

"She's lying, it's that bad," Dean says, eyebrows raised in horrified curiosity when the quivering continues beyond anything nature should permit. "Jell-O salad, that's a thing? What the hell, is this is a fifties sitcom? This happens in real life?"

"I didn't know that, either," she answers, poking it again. "On TV, everyone always ate together, and everything looked really good and they seemed to like eating it."

"Probably fucking plastic shit," Dean tells her bitterly, looking like maybe he wants to stab it on principle but the unceasing motion is too disturbing to risk at this moment. "Okay, one, television lied--Jesus, do people really have ham at Christmas?"

"Don't go there," she warns. "Next year, Chitaqua's Insert Winter Holiday party's gonna have mistletoe, by the way. I've heard good thing about it."

"Like you don't get lucky pretty much always," Dean responds as he spears a large chunk of meat from his plate. "What's coming up next, holiday-wise?" he asks through a mouthful of barbecue, and Castiel wonders how on earth he can fit that much in his mouth and still chew.

Screwing up her face, she thinks. "Easter…." 

"Valentine's Day," Vera interrupts brightly, looking up from her almost empty plate to smile maliciously at Dean. "As the only normal person in this group--"

Dean smiles at her, all teeth.

"--who had a normal childhood," she finishes, ignoring him, "traditionally, you're required to give someone chocolate and in return, they have to have sex with you. Television lied," she assures them sincerely. "That's really how normal people live."

"You're so full of shit," Amanda says, but there's an uncertain look on her face, like perhaps she also watched a great deal of the Lifetime Channel and remembers that as a feature of the culmination of several unnecessarily complicated relationships. He wonders if pornography is considered similar enough to real life to qualify as well; that was the plotline of at least two that he remembers, with chocolate paint and strawberry lube, which on consideration seems rather festive. "No way."

"She's lying," Dean assures her, taking a bite of shell-shaped pasta covered in an off-white substance and sprinkled with an inadequate amount of finely chopped vegetables, untyped. "She's just mixing up real life with the parties Cas used to have."

Castiel tears his attention from the intimidating mound of meat he's supposed to consume. "You were never there for those."

"Yeah, which is why I asked around," he says, scraping up the last of the potato salad and searching his empty plate discontentedly as if for a miraculous return of all the food. "It's not gossip if I do it. It's called keeping up with the news. Like a history book that talks and knows you control their lives."

"Our fearless leader," Vera says, raising her cup. "All hail Dean."

"He wants to conquer Kansas for cocoa," Castiel tells her.

"I'll throw whoever you want against the wall when the revolution comes for some of that," Amanda offers hopefully. "Wanna start tonight?"

Dean taps his fork against the edge of his plate. "Maybe later," he decides, then points his fork at Castiel's half-completed barbecue. "Eat."

Aware his reprieve has ended, he applies himself to methodically finishing his meal. He supposes this is revenge for how often Castiel made Dean finished his meals, though he was doing it to assure Dean wasn't at risk of starvation, while Dean seems to be doing it for the sheer pleasure of it. Dean watches him until he's finished--thankfully allowing the green quivering substance to remain, horrific and nightmare-inducing in its very existence--before sitting back with a satisfied sigh and finishing off his cup of Joe Beer. 

For lack of anything else to do, Castiel sets his plate aside; it's still hours until midnight and while the earlier energy has diminished slightly for the consumption of food, he supposes this could be considered a refueling session. The number of people has increased dramatically, now almost reaching the end of the street in various clusters, and all the publicly accessible buildings are showing almost constant activity, people coming and going almost at random. He wonders what they're doing in there (sex, possibly, but surely other activities as well?).

Amanda looks around the crowded street. "Any idea on numbers here tonight?"

"No idea, but safe bet a lot," Dean answers, leaning an elbow on his knee. "Joe got the official population of Alliance towns at about eight thousand people, but could be as many as twenty thousand in this area. Manuel thinks about two or three thousand are here tonight so far, which considering Ichabod's about a thousand itself, not too shabby for a big party."

"Christ," Vera murmurs.

"Most of the ones in the Alliance who trained with us are here," Amanda offers. "Stopped by to say hi, met their families, their grannies, and their babies." Dean raises his eyebrows. "Fine, I made sure I was really visible when people started showing up. What? Some of them I want for Chitaqua. Gotta keep the lines of communication open."

"You wanted to see how they were doing and catch up with them," Dean tells her, smirking at her scowl. "And hang out at the afterparty. Poker or craps?"

"Poker at Dina's," she admits reluctantly. "Like girls night at the camp, but I haven't slept with any of them. Well, except Laylah, but she brought her girlfriend Katrina, so…."

"Is it some kind of superpower, you can track down and nail every bi and lesbian woman in any given space?" he demands, reaching back for one of their remaining bottles and pouring himself and Amanda a drink. "It's like--"

"Awesome after exactly seven people for over two goddamn years," she answers, taking a drink. "Seven people, Dean. And two of them were drunk-or-post-fight-only, which is fine, I do my part for morale and convincing them flexibility is a virtue, and trust me, I can be very convincing." Vera looks up at Amanda with narrowed eyes as she continues obliviously, "Also works on the didn't even know they were curious, in case you wanted to go cry for a while somewhere, I don't judge. Though God knows not like you're suffering." She leans back slightly to subject Castiel to an alarmingly slow once-over, frowning. "Just curious: female vessel this time around, why not?"

"What," Dean says clearly, "are you doing?"

"Heavily implying I'd be banging your boyfriend until one of us passed out if he'd been a woman," Amanda answers, looking at Dean with wide eyes. "Why?"

Dean stares at wordlessly, unaware Vera is subjecting Amanda to the same look. 

"Under the circumstances, I really don't think you got anything to complain about. Stories," she explains, smiling at Castiel. "Gotta admit, I was getting worried at the sudden monogamy and clean living before Dean let us start visiting other people. You were pretty much the best source of gossip for years, and I mean, not like there was much else to do when we weren't fighting but sex or training, and training was already getting a little sketchy on slow days. Only you and Alicia thought combining those two things was a good idea. How'd that work anyway? You flipped a coin for who topped?"

Beside him, he can feel Dean shaking with the effort not to laugh, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like "Craps, actually."

"I didn't realize I provided such a useful source of entertainment."

"Now you know," Amanda says, taking another drink. "It was like a weird sex Wikipedia or something. The thing with the Bacchanals…."

"The _what_?" Dean exclaims far, far too enthusiastically. "How do you even do that without summoning Bacchus anyway? I thought there had to be--"

"Eldritch Horror, red wine, and half a hit of LSD," Amanda answers to his growing horror. "Wait, let me start at the beginning. There was this cult we ran across on the northern Kansas border trying to summon--"

"Alison," Castiel says in relief at the advent of Alison and Teresa, accompanied by Manuel and Mercedes, all of whom look surprised at his enthusiastic welcome. "It's wonderful to see you and I do mean that."

"We'll pick this up later," Dean promises Amanda quietly before turning his attention to the group, but for some reason, his smile flickers, green eyes narrowing dangerously. "Alison, get off your feet or Vera's gonna pick you up and carry you over here. You _just_ got that goddamn cast off."

"I really will," Vera agrees, frowning critically at Alison's limp. "I told you minimal walking and the boots would be enough if you were careful while your ankle finishes healing. You wanna go to bed now? You know Dolores will back me up like, yesterday. We're tight."

Making a face, Alison sits down on the bench with visible relief, motioning Teresa to join Dean on the table, but not quite casually enough. Castiel watches thoughtfully as Manuel and then Mercedes join her, aware of the tension surrounding them. As Vera and Amanda engage Alison in conversation, he takes a sip of his drink and wonders why Manuel seems to be in a state resembling the moments before an unexpected attack.

"Too bad about the ankle," Dean is saying to Alison. "Can't even dance with your girlfriend. Lucky for you," he adds, putting his cup down, "I'm here for you." Turning to a visible startled Teresa, he asks with exaggerated courtesy, "Can I have this dance?"

"You can dance?" Teresa asks, looking even more startled. "Really?"

"Two weeks I was a ballroom dance instructor in Peoria," he assures her, which makes her blink warily as he nudges Mark out of the way and climbs down, extending a hand. "Ask Amanda. I can totally dance."

"You can headbang," she agrees as the current song ends, replaced by something slower that seems to require everyone to have a partner. "Can't be worse than that."

Visibly wary, Teresa takes Dean's hand, letting him lead her toward the current dancers, and with surprising ease the surrounding crowd parts for them. Craning his neck, he watches Dean lean closer to Teresa to murmur something before they move into the required form to begin.

"Jesus," Vera says, up on her knees, using one hand to balance herself on Amanda's thigh, "he actually knows how to dance." Looking mutinous, she glares at Amanda. "Fine, I'll make you brownies. Happy?"

"I did say he could headbang," Amanda answers serenely. 

Scowl deepening, Vera turns her attention to Alison, whose hand is white-knuckled around her empty cup, and looks at Amanda. "Hey, we got any of that wine left?"

"Sure do," she answers immediately, leaning back to grab it. As Vera fills Alison's cup, murmuring something that results in Alison smiling tightly, he turns to see both Manuel and Mercedes watching the dancers as well with similar expressions and wonders if it would be politic to tell them that Dean, given someone to protect, doesn't need an army to be successful doing it. Certainly not in a crowd of civilians. "So--"

"James," Vera says suddenly, looking at the table next to them, where James, Mira, Nate, and Kamal are seated with several of Ichabod's residents. "Wanna dance?"

"Sure," he agrees in surprise, almost stumbling to his feet (which makes Mira hide a grin) and following her to the crowd, where Castiel notes in approval they take a position far enough from Dean that he doesn't notice them while still keeping him and Teresa in sight. 

Amanda's elbow bumps his just as Mira manages to herd Nate toward the dancers while Kamal and Anthi snicker quietly over their cups. "Any way you can find out if this is pre-emptive or something definite?" she murmurs, jerking her chin at the back of Alison's head.

He spares her an incredulous look--subtlety is not his forte--but to his relief, Alison doesn't pretend she didn't hear them. "Just talk," she says very quietly, turning sideways on the bench with a sigh. "Teresa usually meets with the Alliance mayors and the ones who lead the field workers and they're fine with her, but the others--some of them are just curious, I guess, and with the all the new people around…it's just people wondering things, that's all." She looks at Castiel with a faint smile. "Mood says 'weirded out but not hostile'. I think."

As Dean turns Teresa in a tight circle, laughing, Castiel finds himself scanning the other dancers, the crowd, aware of the number and wondering how many are simply watching people dance and how many are watching Teresa and don't see the human she is, no different than they are, but the power she holds and what she might do with it. Even if all she's done with it is help. 

"A member of Chitaqua is always available to watch Dean when I'm not with him," he tells Alison, hoping desperately that Dean never discovers that particular order exists. "If you and Manuel have no objections, it can be extended to Teresa for the remainder of the celebration."

Alison looks conflicted, though the 'yes, definitely' is obvious. "You don't have to--"

"We'd be doing the same to Cas," Amanda says with a grin, "but he's usually around Dean, so two birds and all. Would love to see anyone try to take him on, though. Once, an asshole assigned to the unit in Topeka thought jumping him would work with the element of surprise when we were called in to help out. He was very surprised on the ground with Cas looking at him in disappointment in like, one second. Hilarity."

Alison hesitates, but after exchanging a glance with Manuel nods agreement. 

"I'll get James and Mira to pass the word when they get back," Amanda tells him before her eyes drifting back to the dancers as the music changes, mouth curving. "Huh."

Following her gaze, he sees Dean gesturing, and Teresa's shoulders slump in obvious defeat, one hand on his hip moving him so they exchange positions and raising her arm. Listening carefully, Castiel identifies the change in tempo to a waltz. 

"I wish I'd brought Chuck's camera," Vera breathes as she and James return, taking Amanda's cup as they watch Teresa determinedly guide Dean into something not unlike a waltz performed by the very drunk (and with more legs than come standard, all left). "I would kill for a recording of this. Not that I'd be doing any better," she adds, finishing the cup. "Which is why I'm not out there."

"I can waltz," Amanda says abruptly, and then looks at her cupless hand regretfully. "Just--throwing that out there. No reason."

Vera looks at Amanda, head tilted curiously, and Castiel sips from his drink, filing this away as an example of human courtship rituals that television didn't lie about.

"And I could teach you," Amanda adds, sliding to the ground and nearly imitating James's earlier stumble in the process. "It's like--uh…."

"Master knife dance," he says encouragingly. "Alicia told me. Just slower, and with less blades and bodily harm."

"Right." Vera stands up warily. "Uh--"

"No, no dropkicking," Amanda says reassuringly, giving Castiel a glare before reaching for Vera's hand and pulling her toward the dancers. "No punching either, it's fine."

Castiel turns his attention back to Dean just as he stumbles and Teresa visibly gathers her patience to try again. "The poltergeist was exorcised before they began the waltz portion," he explains at Alison's wince before easing down from the table to the bench beside her. "How has your evening been thus far?"

Alison smirks at him over the rim of her cup. "Small talk?"

"In this case, combined with genuine interest in your answer."

"Not bad." She takes a drink, frowning thoughtfully. "I wondered how many would show after the recent attack, but human lesson: as pens are to swords, gossip based curiosity is to fear."

"Ten eight foot demons breathing fire leading a Croat army of thousands."

"And those that defeated them." She shakes her head. "Alliance would do the minimum for solidarity, and we usually get a few locals, but…."

"More than that." He nods, taking a drink as he looks up the crowded street. "I was wondering."

"Doesn't hurt to have part of the reason for that here live and in person," she says, smiling faintly. "As well as working patrol with us. Talked to three local mayors so far, definitely some interest in expanding our relationships with each other, being neighbors." Her smile widens. "Especially with our militia neighbor."

He expected as much. "They want to meet Dean."

"Oh yeah." She takes another drink. "I explained this is a party and we don't mix business with pleasure, but all voting members of the Alliance will be meeting after the new year and they're welcome to attend as our guests."

"Joseph spoke to you of his concerns regarding our status."

"I didn't need Joe to tell me that Chitaqua's services-to-the-highest-bidder would be first thought," she answers. "And I don't want anyone who thinks that's ever going to be on the table. Having you and Dean there will hopefully make that clear and filter out the idiots. Which happily," she adds, "the three I talked to weren't, and were very interested in what the Alliance might have to offer other than partnership with a militia who kills thousands of Croats in minutes and maybe a dragon. Though yeah, that helped."

Castiel starts to explain that currently the dragon population is far too low in Kansas to be any kind of threat when Manuel makes a pained sound. Following his gaze, he sees Dean looking extremely apologetic at a downward angle and Teresa covering her face. "How many--"

"Two couples," Mercedes says, pulling Manuel off the bench as Teresa drops her hands to stare at Dean in a way that suggests disarming her might be necessary very soon. Though how you disarm someone whose weapon is the earth itself is something of a question. "We'll try to keep Dean in one piece."

"Please do," he answers as Dean narrowly misses disaster with a second couple and Teresa, even at this distance, begins to project a sense of imminent homicide while Amanda guides Vera through a simple box step. "If at all possible."

* * *

One of the town's council comes to retrieve Alison and Teresa near the end of a deeply sentimental country song (involving infidelity and pick-up trucks, as most seem to do). A skinny greyish man, whose jerky hand gestures threaten anyone within a foot radius of him, indicated that imminent disaster was on the horizon, but Alison's resigned expression seems to imply that he was the type who became easily agitated, finishing her drink before carefully getting to her feet. 

"Meeting at eight?" she asks Dean, who nods agreement as they leave, the scowl flickering into satisfaction at the sight of Leah casually following them at a discreet distance. 

"Teresa said Alison was just tense," he says as Castiel fills his cup again. "Never really had this kind of crowd here before." As he drinks, he scans the crowd, and Castiel's aware that Dean's tapping has almost entirely ceased, hand resting comfortably on his knee without any sign of departure. "So how's it going with everyone anyway?"

"Friendly," Amanda states, still flushed from the waltz lesson with Vera (who gives him a warning look despite the fact he had no intention on commenting on such an surprising gap in her education). "Everything's fine, Dean. No problems."

"Except Kyle," he says pleasantly, eyes drifting to Castiel meaningfully. "Which still haven't heard much about, but later's fine." That this is a temporary reprieve he's aware, yes. "I wonder if the cake's out yet."

"There's cake?" Amanda says in interest, peering around as if expecting it to materialize on request. "Where'd you hear that?"

"Around," he answers vaguely, thumb now brushing absent arcs against the side of Castiel's knee. "We should check that out. Maybe see what else is going on. Cas?"

"Cake?" Dean squeezes his knee (hard), adding an incredulous stare. Oh. "Cake. Yes, of course." Aware of Vera and Amanda watching them in unconcealed amusement, he manages to follow Dean the easy two steps to the ground by sheer luck (and excellent reflexes). "I do like sugar."

As they make their way up the street, Dean's presence begins to elicit noticeable attention, voices dropping off and replaced by sudden whispers, a few pausing in surprise, which leads to others trying to find out what is slowing progress or push past them. While Dean scans the street for an opening, Castiel fights down growing apprehension at the sheer number of people around them.

A sudden surge in the crowd pushes one man toward him, and the compression of the people around them makes it impossible to dodge. Catching himself, the man looks up at Castiel, mouth opening for an apology before the brown eyes widen as shock replaces embarrassment. Jerking back, the man almost stumbles over his own feet, but the horrified gaze never falters, as if he's looking at something--some _thing_ , that--

"What," the man starts, backing into another group, who turn to look at him in annoyance before following his gaze, and Castiel can feel their attention focus on him with an almost audible click. Looking around, he tries to find an opening in the press of people, but there's only more faces; expressions curious, thoughtful, annoyed, wondering what's happening, but as at Alison's first dinner party, it won't stay that way for long, not when they find the source.

Abruptly, a hand closes tightly over his arm just as Dean's shoulder presses against his, green eyes taking in the people around them with an unreadable expression.

"Let's get out of here." Reaching back, Dean takes his hand, lacing their fingers together firmly before pulling him to the right. "Time to improvise."

Before he can ask what that means--or at least to verify what the improvisation includes--Dean maneuvers them between two startled groups and onto the remains of the shattered sidewalk. Ducking behind a neat pile of rubble left from recent repairs and stacks of new bricks, they emerge into an empty alley, snugged between a building marked in blue paint as stable but in need of minor repairs and another marked in white as safe.

Leaning back against the brick of the white-marked building, Dean glances toward the empty mouth of the alley with an expression he can't quite interpret before looking at him and belatedly letting go of his hand. Castiel closes his empty hands carefully to try and keep the fading warmth a little longer. "You okay?"

"Other than disappointment due to the lack of baked goods?" he asks lightly, turning to examine the alley, the exit to Second Street sealed shut with a concrete wall, built early on to help defend the occupied streets. "Very much so."

"Cas--"

"I almost miss humanity advancing beyond creating fortresses," he continues. "This was much easier when most urban centers were planned in advance to provide protection as well as habitation."

When he looks back at Dean, he finds himself the subject of intense scrutiny before he seems to make a decision, eyes flickering to the concrete wall and narrowing thoughtfully. "Infinite knowledge?"

"Actually, observation," he answers. "For most of my existence, I was part of a garrison and my purpose was to protect humanity; knowing both the theory as well as the practical methods humans used to defend themselves and their communities was part of that." He shrugs at Dean's faint smile. "It was interesting."

"I'll take your word for it." Dean glances at the mouth of the alley warily, the lights strung between the buildings and across the street as well as in stationary positions illuminating the passing groups on the other side of the rubble and brick, and retreats a little further into the shadows. "Dude, get over here before someone sees you."

"It's a party," he observes as he joins Dean, leaning a shoulder against the building and ignoring Dean's narrowed eyes. "Parties, from my understanding, generally involve interacting with others and are considered fun."

"Maybe I want a little peace and quiet, too," Dean argues, pushing off the building. "Variety and everything. By the way, what were you and Alison doing this afternoon?"

"I was reviewing her in--" Turning, he goes still when Dean takes a step toward him, suddenly, vividly aware of the brick wall against his back. "--things. That thing. That she does."

Dean nods as he takes another step closer, eyes fixing on his mouth. "You two were acting pretty sketchy when I showed up."

"Sketchy? I…." He forgets what he was saying as Dean braces a hand on the wall by his head. He'd idly wondered for years why Dean could find new partners so effortlessly, despite his reputation in the camp; inconstancy ignored and infidelity forgiven, doubts banished, common sense willingly discarded. The gulf between what humans say and do has always been vast, the contradiction baffling, but never more here. Love is ineffable, beyond comprehension of any except (perhaps) his Father, and Castiel loved Dean, but that never blinded him to the man Dean was or the exact measure of his value to him. "You're very attractive, and it's distracting."

The pale cheeks flush with hot color, smile almost hidden by the duck of his head, and Castiel swallows, palms pressed to the cold brick to stop himself from reaching out to touch him, track the heat with his fingers and then lips. "Jesus, Cas."

"You asked me once about my pick-up lines," he says breathlessly as Dean looks up, flushed and smiling--a private smile, meant for him alone--and it's no mystery at all now why Dean's partners would do anything to keep him. Every ridiculous, baffling action taken now makes sense; so does, he realizes with a sinking feeling, a great number of terrible sitcoms and movies, and very possibly two-thirds of the Lifetime channel. If he's not very careful, it's possible he'll start to find a great deal of abysmal poetry meaningful and relevant to his life. "I thought perhaps that was a hint to create some."

Glancing away, he stares resentfully at the tangle of hair that _will not_ stay out of his face; missing scissors, whatever, it's not as if he doesn't own a plethora of knives. Annoyed, he starts to push it away. "I need to cut--"

Reaching out, Dean pushes his hand away, threading his fingers through the offending strands and tucking them behind his ear with an intent expression, as if there's nothing at this moment more important to do.

"Don't." Satisfied, Dean's fingers trail down his cheek, thumb following the line of faint stubble, running the pad against the grain, and Castiel remembers--for no reason whatsoever--that he forgot to shave again today, a new habit picked up for reasons (Dean) a few days ago. "It's a good look for you."

"Is it?" he asks vaguely as Dean's thumb traces the sensitive skin below his lower lip, tipping his head up at the suggestion of pressure, and has a glimpse of Dean's pleased grin before Dean kisses him.

It's no more than a steady, warm pressure, but when Dean pulls back, it takes in several long moments to breathe. Licking the lingering taste of him from his lips, he earns another kiss, longer, Dean's hand sliding to cushion his head from the cold brick. An appalled corner of his mind informs him that he's being very expertly seduced, and far worse, it's working very well. 

"Been waiting for this all day," Dean murmurs, breath puffing against his chin as Dean presses a kiss just below the lower curve of his lip. "Can't get you to myself for a goddamn _minute_ this last week. Except when we're too tired to do much."

Castiel starts to remind him they've had many, many minutes, but Dean's mouth skimming along the line of his jaw makes talking difficult. Now that he's mentioned it, however-- "We have had many visitors the last few days."

Dean snickers against his cheek before resting his forehead against Castiel's. "You just noticed?" 

"I…" Removing the patina of Dean's presence from his memories (one that overwhelms any and all activities), he examines the last few days and wonders exactly how worried he should be that until now, he didn't notice the pattern. "Fifteen minutes."

"It felt like five," Dean complains, closing the last of the space between them. "Every goddamn time we were alone in the cabin." Chuckling softly, he brushes another kiss, achingly light, against his temple before meeting his eyes. "Fuck Joe, they're doing this on purpose and he's coordinating 'em. Revenge for that goddamn shirt."

There's really no other explanation for how often they abruptly have camp members showing up with important questions or in need of help whenever they're alone for more than a quarter of an hour. Four endless days of that has gone from the universe hating him (as if he needed proof) to sick irony to a strategic punishment for airborne shirts in the middle of the night. Their nights are uninterrupted, of course, but an extraordinarily busy day means Dean's far more tired than he will admit, and the recent nightmares are helping not at all.

He leans into the next lazy kiss, close-mouthed and gentle, trying not to follow when Dean pulls away again. "We used the time well."

"Had to hurry," Dean answers, sounding annoyed, and Castiel starts to ask for clarification when Dean cuts off both the first indrawn breath and the entire train of thought with another kiss, tongue brushing a stripe of heat against the seam of his lips, coaxing them open with a pleased sound that turns into something darker when Castiel tangles a hand in his hair to pull him closer.

Distantly, he's aware of Dean unzipping their coats, but the first brush of chill air is almost immediately replaced by the warmth of his body, palm curving over his hip and waist before sliding around his back and under his sweater to settle against the small of his back, only the thin barriers of a thermal shirt and t-shirt between the warm pressure of Dean's fingers and his skin.

The world narrows to the feel of Dean's mouth sliding over his jaw, the rough scratch of bare stubble that Dean seems to find fascinating, licking against the grain and smiling when Castiel's breath catches. Tipping Castiel's head back further, he mouths along his jaw before his lips settle below his ear, tongue warming the cool skin and making Castiel shiver. Mouthing his way back to his lips, Dean coaxes Castiel's tongue into his mouth, catching the tip sharply between his teeth before sucking it, slow and luxurious, as if they have all the time in the world, and if he could, Castiel would stop it altogether if it meant that Dean wouldn't ever have to.

Abruptly, Dean's head snaps up and toward the mouth of the alley; a moment later, Castiel hears a voice--he's almost sure that's Sean's--calling Dean's name. And far more horrifyingly, he's closer with each repetition.

"How the _fuck_ \--"

"They must have established a system giving each team a given area of territory on Third Street to watch and rotate who is assigned as lookout while the other three enjoy themselves," he says in resignation. "They likely signal each other when whenever we enter or leave a given territory, at which time the designated lookout activates their team--and any other members available--to set up a perimeter, within which they assure someone has us in line of sight at all times. On a guess, they saw us vanish from the crowd, sent a signal to the others, and they narrowed down our location by creating a--"

"Seriously?" Dean says incredulously. "You taught them to be professional stalkers?"

"I trained them to track and isolate demons, Hellhounds, and corporeal beings of any type," he answers defensively. "I taught them to track _me_."

"And goddamn Manuel issued 'em all walky-talkies," Dean groans, head dropping on Castiel's shoulder as Sean's voice drifts to them again, but it doesn't seem to be closer, which means their presence in this alley was already visually confirmed. "Amanda's helping Joe coordinate, I bet you anything; she knows every goddamn street."

He braces himself not to fight the inevitable moment Dean pulls away, watching the green eyes focus on the wall blocking the exit to Second speculatively. "They already have someone positioned on the other side to mock us for even trying. There's probably a point system involved, though what the prize is for winning…"

"I think I know," Dean says grimly. Before he can ask, Dean kisses him once, hard, then steps back, zipping up Castiel's coat reluctantly before seeing to his own. To his surprise, Dean reaches for his hand again, squeezing his fingers before tipping his head toward the mouth of the alley. "Gonna kill 'em. Later. So, cake?"

* * *

After threatening an unrepentant Sean--who desperately needed to tell them all was well at headquarters without any effort whatsoever in attempting to be believable--Dean frowns at Castiel's suggestion they see what other entertainment Ichabod is providing for its guests. He frowns even more when Castiel points out that apparently, his presence can quickly disperse crowds, which tells him the earlier incident hasn't been forgotten.

Dean's scowl confirms this as well. "Not funny."

"It's a learned response," he admits, eyes fixing on one of the brightly-lit buildings nearby. Taking nearly half a block in itself, it's façade was obviously manufactured to resemble that of the older buildings, and while the brickwork matches them in type, it's far newer. The sign is somewhat faded, but he thinks one of the words used to be 'Bank'. Remembering the journey to acquire better liquor with Vera, he considers the lack of attention. "As long as they don't notice me--individually, I mean--I doubt it'll be a problem."

Dean's set jaw doesn't indicate his amenability to this possibility.

"Dean, it's a celebration taking up a single street," he persists. "Unless you want me to remain at the picnic table all night, there's nowhere to go where there aren't people and many of them."

"Or," Dean says, dragging out the single syllable into at least three, "we could, I don't know, go back to Alison's, hang out there."

"You'll miss the celebration."

"Won't be missing a thing," he answers, stepping close enough that Castiel can feel the next words breathed against his cheek. "I can think of a lot of things to do. Got a list; wanna hear it?"

"I want," he says with an effort; he has a list, too, and they could compare, no, _this is not the time_ , "to find out what humans do at parties, and my sampling size is currently insufficient, it being Chitaqua and here. So far, they eat, drink, dance, talk, wander about without any particular goal, and have sex in the walk-in refrigerators and freezers--"

"Still wondering how the hell anyone can fuck beside half a goddamn cow."

"I also find that questionable," he agrees. "As I was saying--"

"It was hanging _right there_ ," Dean persists, baffled. "Not like you could miss it."

"It's possible that was less a problem than an inducement," he admits, adding quickly, "Don't ask me how I know that, just take as a given that after thinking about it, my knowledge of at least two of the participants makes that less a surprise than…"

"Than what?"

"An unexpectedly literal escalation," he decides, and Dean closes his eyes. "Could we please not speak of this ever again? There's now a rule that no one can have sex in the mess and I've already had to re-evaluate certain--past interactions that now have an entirely new and very disturbing context. If you persist, however, I'll tell you every unsettling detail so as to get your opinion on the subject."

"Christ, done," Dean breathes, shaking himself. "So--"

"Celebrations and my limited experience with them," he says in relief. "Surely there's more to them, and I'd like to find out what."

Dean cocks his head disbelievingly. "Really."

"And in this case," he continues, less certain, "observation isn't sufficient for my purposes. Participation, you might say, is mandatory. To get the full--experience."

"On earth," Dean says seriously, "the word for that is 'living'."

"You've mentioned I should try that," he agrees, watching Dean fighting not to smile. "I thought--I'd like to do that. With you."

Dean ducks his head, and Castiel can just see the faint hint of color stain his cheeks. "You win. Where do we start?"

Castiel looks at the former bank thoughtfully. "What do you think they're doing in there?"

* * *

Fortunately, the numbers of those coming and going aren't excessive, for more than one reason: Dean stops short just inside the open double doors, eyes widening at the sight of what is very likely his definition of the promised land.

"Oh hell yes," he murmurs as they take in the large two-story room stretched before them, lit by a mixture of recently-repaired overheads as well as a variety of large lamps that, like the heat, run off one of Ichabod's emergency generators. "Good choice."

The back and right walls are lined with doorways--former offices, he assumes, from his experience with banks--so this must have been the lobby, though he can't tell where the tellers' area was located due to the number of people spread out across the tile floor, engaged in what appears to be every possible game of chance that can be played with a deck of cards or set of dice (among other, less familiar games). A plethora of former dining tables, folding tables, and battered coffee tables have been repurposed, though when necessary, a blanket on the floor seems to be an acceptable substitute. Dean's eyes flicker greedily over the various games, focusing in interest at the piles of goods that seem to be what are used at stakes. Among them, Castiel notes, following Dean's gaze, what appears to be a tin of cocoa.

"We still have ten bottles of Eldritch Horror in the jeep," Castiel reminds him, trying to decide what else they have that Dean could use and making a mental note to remember to bring trade goods when attending large gatherings of people in the future. "I'm sure several of those can be used to trade for sufficient items for you to use for your initial stake. And we have ammunition, of course." Manuel's recommendation, and a good one.

"This is still amateur hour," Dean decides after a few moments, pursing his lips. "I'll wait for the pros to show in a few hours." 

With a visible effort, Dean navigates them between the tables, participants far too busy to notice their presence, and past the wide stairway, glancing into the offices for potential people to fleece in anticipatory satisfaction before stopping short as someone waves at them from the end of a short hallway.

"Anyi," he says in surprise, easily able to discern the location of her weapons concealed under her coat by the way she moves. "Patrol lead."

"I knew that," Dean murmurs, smiling as he starts toward her and saying, "Hey, what's--"

She puts a finger over her mouth, shaking her head and gesturing behind her, where the ajar door spills enough light to indicate activity within. Looking over their shoulders ostentatiously, she waits until they reach her before opening it fully and ushering them into a brightly lit room filled with what appears to be most of Ichabod's patrol (and some of Chitaqua's, for that matter).

"Secret hideout for patrol," she says, grinning up at them from beneath fringe of dark brown bangs. "So they don't get drunk in public and embarrass us."

"Good idea," Dean says approvingly as he surveys the room, grin widening at the sight of the table set up near the wall to the left, upon which are bottles and cups, with more stacked beneath and around it as well as stacks of crates and several people busily making and handing out drinks, one of them very familiar indeed. "Thanks." 

"Have fun," she says on her way back out the door.

"Let's see what's on tap," Dean tells him, making for the table where Mark is mixing something intensely purple, raising an eyebrow when Mark looks up and starts in surprise. "Dude, secret club and you didn't invite us? What's that about?"

"I was going to, but Amanda said you two were busy doing important leader things in the nearest alley," Mark answers, smirking at them both. "Didn't want to interrupt. No matter what she offered if I would." He shakes his head as Dean's expression turns speculative. "Dean, whatever you're thinking, no. She's my commander!"

Dean scowls. "I'm your leader."

"Yeah, but she lives _here_ , and so do I," Mark says nervously. "She knows where I sleep!"

Dean makes a face before accepting Mark's (flawless) logic. "Can I at least get something to drink?" 

Mark sighs in relief. "Anything you want. What's your poison?"

"Surprise us," Dean advises him, nodding to Manuel, Hans, Matthew, and Antonio seated around a folding table nearby. As Mark mixes their drinks, Castiel takes in the room curiously, relieved to see so many familiar faces. Sean and his team seem to be engaged in poker with one of Ichabod's patrol teams (Sean doesn't need to cheat; they're all terrible); a few members of Ichabod's patrol are talking near one of the windows; and on a broken down couch a few feet away, drooling stuffing between patches of threadbare fabric, Amanda and Leah are seated, Amanda waving at them enthusiastically.

"Here," Dean says, handing him a cup of something of a very questionable lavender hue and taking a drink before Castiel can stop him. "Huh," he says, looking at the contents. "Not bad."

"Amanda is waving," he points out on the off-chance that Dean didn't notice.

"I bet she is," Dean says venomously, taking another drink before smiling widely and closing a hand around Castiel's upper arm. "Come on, let's say hi."

"What's up?" Leah chirps as they reach them, head resting on Amanda's shoulder and giving them a drowsy smile. 

"Sit down," Amanda says invitingly, patting the cushion beside her, and as Dean nudges him forward, Castiel reluctantly removes his coat and carefully places it over the back of the couch. Having no excuse left not to do so, he gingerly sits down beside Amanda and sinks immediately with a discordant squeal of springs, Amanda sliding half into his lap and Leah slumping more comfortably against Amanda's ribs. Dean's unhidden satisfaction isn't particularly gratifying as he perches on the more solid arm, and Castiel wonders idly what the appropriate penalty for having a working grasp of physics as they apply to cushions should be.

"Amanda?" Dean asks after a moment, raising his eyebrows as Amanda makes herself comfortable against his side, throwing a leg across his thigh for balance while Leah scoots to a slightly more upright position. "Really?"

"And don't you wish you were me right now," she says smugly. "Cas, your gun's digging into my thigh."

Dean's outraged expression changes to annoyance as he helpfully moves the holster and shifts her leg a quarter of an inch to the right, settling back with another horrific whine of springs. Before Dean can say anything, however, Mark appears before them, handing Dean a small cup and cocking his head as he takes a drink, grinning at his expression.

"Christ," he mutters, passing it to Castiel, who regards the bright blue contents dubiously. "Sharing is caring, Cas."

"Not when applied to crimes against alcohol." Warily, he takes a drink; the sweetness almost hides the raw edges of the liquor. But not quite. Dean's mouth quirks as he passes it to Amanda, who swallows obediently and hides her cough against his shoulder. Leah just closes her eyes and shakes her head adamantly "I didn't realize paint thinner was alcoholic, however." At Mark's expectant expression, he adds, "Corn mash, eighty-five proof, less than five days old, and I assume the blue is the result of artificial blueberry syrup and not drain cleaner, though that part I can't guarantee."

Dean raises his eyebrows, but only remarks, "The more you know," as he takes back the cup, finishing it off with a grimace as Mark returns to the front. Glancing over at Amanda--currently engaged in conversation with Leah--Dean leans closer, murmuring in his ear, "So had a lot of trial runs before you got Eldritch Horror?"

"The eighth was the first time I successfully managed to create something not lethal," he says distractedly, trying not to shiver at the warmth of Dean's breath. "Ten more trials, however, achieved Eldritch Horror as you know it. Theodore was very knowledgeable regarding different distillation methods and grounded me thoroughly in the principles, but in practice--"

"Who?"

"A recruit: he didn't stay, but he…" Looking into the curious green eyes, for the first time in his existence he has an inexplicable desire to edit if at all possible. "…knew a great deal. About distillation methodology, as I said."

Dean's eyebrows tell him that didn't help.

"I don't remember anything else about him, really," he tries, and is rewarded with Dean biting his lip. "A very long time ago."

"Good save," Dean tells him approvingly as Mark appears with an earthenware cup and an eager expression. Glancing down at the contents, Dean whistles softly. "Holy _shit_ , what the hell?" Sipping it warily, he shudders, letting Castiel see the contents but shaking his head when he tries to take the cup. "Trust me on this one. Kill it with fire. Or use it for adventures in arson."

Staring at the liquid sloshing within, Castiel agrees. "So that's--unsettlingly orange."

"I think he added orange juice," Amanda says, peering into the cup. "I mean, I think one of these tasted like oranges."

"There are oranges in Kansas?" he asks dubiously as Mark returns to the makeshift bar (hopefully to pour that upon unhallowed ground and cover with salt).

She grimaces. "Don't ask those kinds of questions, Cas. That way lies madness and your best friend teaching a line of people how to waltz and the line just keeps getting longer. What, no one took dance lessons or something?" She frowns uncertainly. "That wasn't the original subject, was it?"

"And now Vera's giving dance lessons to the masses?" Dean asks, taking a drink from the cup Mark gives him and nodding approvingly before passing it to Castiel. "This is bad why? Good public relations."

"What's the word for two things that apart are great but together destroy worlds? Peanut butter and jelly," Amanda answers desolately. "That's what's happening at the street dance right now. Vera and dancing: two things that are fucking amazing together and fuck milkshakes, that shit brings all the boys--and girls, fuck my life--to the yard."

"Sounds like she's having fun," Dean says maliciously. "And you're here why?" 

"Self-preservation. She, Alicia, Mira, and Jody were rocking out to Britney Spears' Toxic, Alicia and Vera get touchy-feely when they're drinking, and I'm only human. Fuck pop: that shit destroys lives." Her eyes narrow. "I need something to kill."

"Oh, I can tell you what you need--"

"Dean," Castiel murmurs as Amanda focuses on Dean challengingly; while he doesn't necessarily object to watching them engage in healthy violence (and is adding that to his list), at the moment he's sitting between them. "Don't taunt your subordinates. Amanda, he's your leader, and if you attacked him, I'm technically required to discipline you."

"What's the discipline again?" she asks, never looking away from Dean.

Dean grins, all teeth. "Bring it on."

"Dean," Manuel says into the brief yet terrifying silence, getting Dean's attention. From the corner of his eye, Castiel sees Mark breathe a sigh of relief before coming up juggling several cups. "You got a second?"

"Yep." Taking a cup, he squeezes Castiel's shoulder while still looking at Amanda. "Pick this up later?"

"No," Castiel says before Amanda can answer. "You're not."

Dean and Amanda look at him with identical disappointed expressions before Dean wanders toward Manuel after taking one of the cups from Mark. "Spoilsport," Amanda mutters, waiting for Castiel to take his drink before reaching for her own. "Look at you: all grown up and giving everyone sensible advice like a responsible adult. Next thing you know, you'll be clean, sober, married, and going to bed at a decent hour every night…oh wait." Smiling in triumph, she shifts smoothly onto the cushion and turns toward Mark, who has seated himself on the other side of Leah.

Taking a drink--vodka, cranberry and pomegranate syrup, a classic--he looks around again, declining to expound on the various ways that Amanda is wrong, as that's obvious (what is a decent hour? One must have sufficient sleep to be productive, after all). Instead, he examines the room, noting the recent repair work done and wondering if Ichabod is anticipating more new residents after this celebration.

Slightly more than basic repairs were completed on this building, and like the one that Alison offered to Chitaqua for their use tonight, the work done was obviously quite recent. Many of the doorways, while no longer containing doors, have newer frames in some cases, while those with older ones have been fixed, hinges cleaned and ready for the addition of a door. Many of the walls have been recently patched, the windows cleared of broken glass when necessary and sealed with fresh squares of tarp, neatly taped to keep out the elements. Even the floors have been recently cleaned, and from the regular shapes of almost untouched tile scattered throughout the rooms he observed on their way here that appeared and disappeared under the multitude of feet, they've also been cleared in preparation for more than just today's celebration.

He suspects that some of the most recent work--specifically on the YMCA and the apartment buildings flanking it on Fifth Street--is an indicator that Alison's eventual goal is to locate the speculated permanent camp within the town itself instead of it being built separately. He also suspects that Dean has very much encouraged just that.

Taking another drink, he takes in the heavy door to their right that leads to the walk-in safe and finds himself considering the probable measurements; if Alison's not set on the potential Fifth Street location for Chitaqua's permanent residents here, it would be more than sufficient for a working armory. Or--considering Ichabod has engineers among the residents--perhaps the safe could be moved.

Tipping his head back, he considers the potential space here; the lobby's size would make controlled entrance difficult, not to mention the fact it limits available space on the second floor, but between it and the third floor, there might be sufficient space for some housing and administration needs. Meeting rooms would be very useful for both the individual patrol teams as well as general ones of the camp members. Splitting the lobby would be a possibility, or simply building a smaller room into which the front doors would open, with someone on duty at all times. Fortunately, a bank is built for security, so it would only be a matter of assuring warding is placed appropriately and maintenance of salt lines be adhered to.

Castiel considers adding a general mess as well, depending on the feasibility of Ichabod's power grid allowing maintenance of individual kitchens; it might be prudent to minimize their requirements of the power grid once they have a contingent in place so that Tony can verify how much power they can afford to use. The area in back of this building could easily be cleared and cultivated to reduce their demands on Ichabod's resources. While Ichabod's agreement will doubtless be to supply them here in return for labor, there's no reason that those living here shouldn't also contribute to the general food supply as well.

"You're doing it again." Startled, he looks at Dean, who drops on the arm of the couch and glances at the safe. "Armory, right?"

"How--"

"Same look in the alley," he says, tucking a leg underneath him as he turns sideways, the better not to drown as the cushion audibly protests occupation. "It's contagious or something; I saw the safe when we came in and thought the same thing."

"You're considering stationing Chitaqua's hunters in the town itself." Dean shrugs but doesn't deny it, and thinking about it, he thinks he can guess the reason. "It would be complicated to make our camp here even a quarter as defensible as Chitaqua, and that's excluding our wards, which can't be recreated here. In the town itself would be safer, especially for those in training."

"Exactly." The flicker of frustration tells him Dean's been thinking about this for some time. "Look, I get mixing a militia and civilians is probably a recipe for disaster here--not like I know how the hell this works."

"It can be." Historically, it tends to be most prevalent in situations of occupation, however, not partnership. "That doesn't mean it can't be done well."

"Maybe," is all Dean says, finishing his cup. "Alison's one year plan is to start working on a permanent wall for Ichabod, but…."

"Size, materials, labor, time, and advanced understanding of structural engineering," he finishes, remembering Tony expounding on the subject. "Their work on repairing the buildings is giving them experience in the principles, but it's a very different thing to design a structure like a city wall and then bring it into reality, especially if it's supposed to be functional and not simply decorative."

Dean starts to answer, then frowns. "What time is it?"

"Twenty minutes until eight." From the corner of his eye, he sees Manuel excusing himself from the group around him and remembers. "The meeting." 

"We better start toward Admin, get good seats. You ready?" Castiel takes Dean's extended hand gratefully as the cushions squeal a second hideously loud protest. Even more gratifyingly, Dean looks at Amanda, saying, "Yeah, you're coming, too."

Amanda's smug grin vanishes.

"Hurry up," he says, watching her fight free of the cushions with evident enjoyment. "Joe and Vera are meeting us there. It'll be fun."

* * *

The meeting, located on the second floor of Admin with a selection of Ichabod's leadership, begins with a summary of the evening's events, which consists of assurances that no one has died, suffered serious injury, alcohol poisoning, or drug related emergencies; that the available public sanitary facilities were still functioning; and that there have been minimal reports of physical altercations requiring intervention and as yet, no one had done anything requiring ejection from the festivities, though some are currently restricted in their movements until sobriety is achieved.

From the look on Dean's face--much like the one he feels on his own--as they listen to the droned grocery list of potential disasters as yet to occur, the logistics of hosting so many people is both terrifying and strangely mesmerizing. He's glad his memory is sufficient, as there's no paper or pen available to take notes.

"A few too intoxicated to know better," Naresh assures them crisply after a brief, harrowing description of his teams breaking up two fights and preventing several others, looking amused. Of medium height, dark hair cut ruthlessly short, the town's sheriff exudes resigned authority with the help of a slightly British accent that Alison told him for some reason makes Naresh always sound right no matter what he says ("Blame James Bond," she told him, shaking her head in confusion and then promising a movie marathon while they're in Ichabod so he can become acquainted with the delights of double-o-seven, whatever that means). "We sent them to think about their behavior in one of our old storage buildings on eastern Second while they regain sobriety." Eyes dancing, he looks over the silent members of Chitaqua in unconcealed amusement. "Not something you deal with in your camp, I suppose."

"Not really," Dean manages, attempting with laudable success to look as if this isn't as strange to him as it is to the rest of them. "Military camp, discipline--"

"Terrified of pissing you off or Cas looking really disappointed in us," Amanda offers up from her casual sprawl in her chair on the other side of the table, rolling her eyes at Dean's glare. "What, he never used it on you? It's…." she shudders as Vera and Joseph nod enthusiastic agreement.

"No, I've seen it," Dean says unexpectedly, turning to look at Castiel and apparently oblivious to the amused observation of Ichabod's council. "Dude, that's harsh."

"Threw it at us like a goddamn grenade when he came up with mowing the grass as incentive to perform our duties to his satisfaction," Joseph confirms. "Almost worse than the actual mowing."

"Mowing," Naresh says thoughtfully, sitting back in his chair. "Now that's an interesting thought. We do have a great deal of grass."

"It's surprisingly effective," he agrees cautiously as Dean grins at him before turning his attention to his contribution to the meeting. "All of Chitaqua's members are under orders to report to you or one of your subordinates on duty here should they witness anything that has the potential to be undesirable, intervening only if the situation seems to require immediate action. They've assured me that there have been very few causes of concern. However, the patrol leaders have stated that the number of people here has increased to the point of groups gathering very close to the patrol perimeter and feel they may need to expand it soon." Castiel hesitates, aware of Dean's attention. "I understand that the last few months have been almost entirely devoid of any threats to your safety--with one very obvious exception--but while we've confirmed the existence of the barrier, there's no certainty how long that protection will last, limited though it seems to be now."

Lanak, formerly a programmer from Cambodia and now responsible for the town's supplies, leans forward, brown eyes intent from beneath a fringe of short black hair. "But you still don't know who put this barrier up or why?"

"No," Dean answers. "But me, I'd feel pretty stupid if tonight's the night it ends with a blood-soaked bang."

"Lovely image, Dean, thanks," Alison says sourly. "Teresa, Manuel, should we move the line out more east and west?"

"Got an idea with that," Tony says from the other side of Claudia. "We've been working on Fourth and Fifth the last couple of months, which is working out really well since it looks like we're gonna need at least one of 'em tonight. I ordered my group to double check the markers on the safe buildings on my way here. Everything checks out, we'll go ahead and open Fourth, send half our impromptu bartenders and the vendors over there, and sit back to watch the migration."

"Open the street? Claudia?" Alison asks. "You did the organization for the party; that cause any problems?"

"I like it," she says, leaning her elbows on the table and nodding, looking uncannily like her son Derek for a moment as she grins at Alison. "Lanak, tell everyone what you told me."

"Those who have booths would appreciate it," Lanak says. "Business is doing very well, and they'd like room to put out more of their merchandise. We didn't plan for this many vendors to show up, so there's definitely a problem with space. We should encourage it," she adds, looking around the room. "To be mercenary for a moment, we're in an excellent position for general trade both among the local populations as well as statewide, and tonight may be our best opportunity to spread the word. The wards we use are extremely effective, the Alliance is well established, and it certainly doesn't hurt that Chitaqua's training camp is located here as well. I doubt our allies would object to encouraging our reputation as a center of trade for several towns: one stop shopping holds great appeal for everyone. Considering the point of origin of some of the celebrants tonight, stories about the variety of vendors here tonight should spread well."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Not just local? Not bad."

"Surprising, to say the least." Alison glances at Manuel. "Where did that group you talked to earlier say they were from?"

Manuel hesitates for a long moment. "Waterville."

"Waterville," Dean echoes, straightening in his chair. "Waterville, as in--Jesus, that's…."

"Marshall county," Castiel finishes for him. "District 2, current population unknown, very wary of strangers."

"North," Dean states flatly. "Ten miles from the northern Kansas border."

Alison winces. "Yes, that's what my map said, too."

"Who shot at us," Dean continues, looking at Vera for support, as her team were the ones who fled before the hail of welcoming gunfire. "You're telling me one, your invitation made it to _northern Kansas_ , and two, the people who think strangers are to be shot on sight wanna get down with people they've never met _on the other side of the state_ because some traders told them all about it and hey, why not?"

"People are still showing up, mostly local, but some, not so much," Manuel confirms, glancing at Teresa. "We added a second team to the daycare, check-in every half-hour. They know what to watch for." Sitting back, he makes a face. "We--may have checked a few of the new arrivals out, didn't see any problems, so it's just a precaution."

"I checked them out," Alison says, rolling her eyes. "Just get a feel for them--in this kind of crowd, I couldn't risk more than that--and I didn't get bad intentions." Castiel nods agreement; she's made excellent progress, but the addition of so many unfamiliar minds in a discrete area means it's almost impossible to organize her mind sufficiently without being overwhelmed. "Hungry and thirsty and a little tired, yeah, but that's one hell of a drive. I got the feeling the traders they talked to got them curious about life beyond their town limits, and after almost five months of peace--relatively speaking--they figured it was worth the risk to find out."

Dean nods reluctantly. "Any idea how many people are here?"

"It's below six thousand, but probably not by much," Castiel offers, and the room abruptly goes silent, all eyes fixing on him.

"Uh, just from curiosity," Dean says finally, sounding strained, "how do you figure?"

"Third street is approximately one half mile long and twenty-four feet wide including sidewalks; with the seven buildings in use tonight, there's approximately ninety-seven thousand, one hundred and ten square feet of space, roughly seventy-seven thousand, six hundred and eighty-eight of it usable. If everyone stood shoulder to shoulder using all available space, or approximately four square feet per individual, roughly nineteen thousand, four hundred and twenty-two people could be accommodated, provided they didn't move except for very minimal breathing, best accomplished in shifts."

"You're fucking with me." Dean stares at him. " _Nineteen thousand_? People?"

"Nineteen thousand, four hundred, and twenty-two, roughly, and yes. That number is theoretical, not practical," he explains. "However, using that as the maximum possible number of people that could be accommodated--"

"Breathing in shifts," Alison interrupts. "Shifts. For breathing."

"Yes," he agrees impatiently before continuing. "As I was saying, using that and average personal space requirements--eight to ten feet square feet per person--and taking into consideration areas that would naturally be greater or less by design--such as the dancing area, which average roughly four to five square feet per person--and those that require more--for example, the area designated for dining, the vendor area, or the building housing games of chance, that require between sixteen and twenty-one square feet per person--it's relatively simple to calculate current _practical_ number."

"Right," Tony says, nodding. "So what would that be?"

"Between seven thousand, seven hundred and sixty-nine and eight thousand people could be accommodated at this moment without undue problems," he answers. "When the average drops below six square feet, that causes involuntary stagnation, which generally leads to frequent outbreaks of seemingly unprovoked violence and mass panic in crowds." He thinks of the Woodstock documentary again, as well as his experience at concerts while on jobs. "Unless you're very high, of course, and excluding activities where being stationary is a feature, such as sporting events, movie theatres, or musical performances both outdoor and those that occur indoor and involve seats."

Alison nods blankly. "Yeah, none of that. Let's go back to the breathing in shifts thing--how does that work? Get someone with a megaphone or what?"

"I can't believe you're still hung up on that," Teresa says, frowning. "Or that I am too; how _would_ that work?"

"I don't think it's ever been tried," he answers thoughtfully. "A bullhorn, or perhaps music over the loudspeakers, and sort everyone into groups by measure--"

"Back to the subject," Dean interrupts before Castiel can explain how to assign the groups. "Which was--what _was_ the subject?"

"Lack of crowd stagnation," Castiel says, reluctantly abandoning his thoughts on how to use beat appropriately (as humans seem unclear on that). "And as I was saying, there's no indication of it; all the episodes of violence so far have been localized and involved external factors, and the areas most likely to have high concentrations of people not at rest show regular, constant motion and those accommodating people in leisure activities are not overcrowded. At most, six thousand people are currently within the perimeter of Third Street and its buildings, and from observation, I doubt it's more than five and a half thousand at this time." He remembers the daycare with an internal wince. "However, the number of children below age eleven at the daycare on Main Street--that is, those not participating in the adolescent celebrations--would raise that number by roughly two to three hundred--"

"So let's go with six thousand." Alison looks at the other members of Ichabod's leadership. "That's not much less than we have between all five in our trading partners, total."

"And they're still coming," Manuel reminds her in gloomy satisfaction. "Especially locals. I'm guessing those mayors you and Claudia talked to earlier sent word back home to come on by for dinner and beer. They're BYOB at least--bring your own beer," he explains with a grin at Castiel's mystified expression. "And food, of course."

Dean's eyes narrow at that, but Alison starts to smile, looking at Claudia. "They were serious."

"Yeah," Claudia answers, matching her smile. "This Alliance meeting should be pretty interesting."

Alison turns to Tony. "Fourth you got covered, but just in case, how long--"

"Like I said, I sent a group to check Fifth the same time I did Fourth," he answers easily. "Last survey showed no change in our original calls and we re-marked everything three months ago, but I'll go myself and double check. Thirty for Fourth, hour and a half for Fifth: that work?"

"For a miracle, not bad," Alison agrees. "By the way, do I want to know why Walter's not here lobbying for a bonfire?" She frowns. "Where is he, anyway? I haven't seen him since before dinner."

"Right, that." Tony shrugs, elaborately nonchalant. "I told Walter he could have his bonfire if he did it off eastern Fourth near the pump in that old shopping center. I'll check it on my way to Fifth."

"Bonfire?" Dean straights, looking around at the amused faces challengingly. "What? It's been a while since I was around one for fun."

"Should be up by the time we open the street if I know Walter," Tony tells him, then looks at Alison expectantly. "Anything else we need to cover?"

"No, that should be it," she answers. "Dean, Cas, Amanda, I'd like to meet again at three, see where we are."

"Yeah, I was thinking the same thing." Dean frowns distractedly. "You mind if I assign someone to come by for a check-in with whoever's on duty here? Once an hour, make sure everything's--happening, whatever."

"Works for me." Looking around, she nods. "Okay, we're done until three; remember to report to Admin hourly and that goes for your replacements when they go on duty. Tony, Naresh, Lanak: give me a few minutes before you go so I can update Admin's logs."

As they get up, Dean deliberately pauses, eyes flickering to Castiel as he starts toward the door in an unmistakable request to wait. Vera, Amanda, and Joseph seem to take this as a unspoken order, and by the time he and Dean emerge onto the sidewalk, they've already left the town square. Closing the door behind them, Castiel's almost overwhelmed by the sudden increase of noise from the preschool age children playing beneath the floodlights stationed at regular intervals around the town square. 

The clean-up of the courtyard was completed only hours after they left Ichabod that day, but somehow, he can see the ghost of the symbol in the center of the square, the position of each body and pool of drying blood as clearly as the moment he first arrived that day. Despite himself, he finds himself staring on the spot ten feet from the western end of the daycare's porch and only four bloody steps from the dismembered remains of a demon's host, where Dean dropped to his knees and showed him the Croatoan bite on his arm, where he looked into Castiel's eyes and asked him to take his life, _"Don't make this harder than it already is."_

Neither of them knew the meaning of the word. _I'd do it again, all of it. It was worth it. You are--_

"Cas?"

"--worth it," he hears himself breathe, blinking at Dean. "I apologize; my mind was wandering. It--does that now."

"Right," Dean drawls, shoving his hands in his pockets and tilting his head toward the eastern exit. "You wanna check out Fourth?"

* * *

Fourth street is almost unsettlingly quiet compared to Third, the few clumps of people scattered near the buildings making it seem even more empty than no people at all.

Dean looks around them as they start down the street. "Okay, this is spooky."

"Something tells me," he says finally after several eternal blocks of buildings, much like the ones on Third, "we aren't here simply to admire the architecture."

"Waterville," Dean states, and yes, that's what he thought.

"As Alison said, traders--"

"Waterville, Kansas, on the other side of the state and thinks bullets are a good way to say hi," Dean interrupts as if Castiel wasn't speaking. "Waterville, who shot at not one but _two_ of our patrol teams--"

"There is no proof that they were the ones who attacked Sarah's team during the blizzard…." He doesn't believe that, either; while other towns in District 2 were ambivalent if not outright hostile, none of them were homicidal or followed them for miles _still shooting at them_. The location that Sarah's team was subject to an inexpert but enthusiastic attempted ambush was also suspiciously close to the place where Vera's team was able to finally make their escape months before. "Retracted."

" _Thank_ you." Looking annoyed, Dean shakes his head. "So Waterville, winner of the 'hates outsiders' award forever, decides to show up in Ichabod-- _halfway across the state_ \--because why not? Ichabod isn't even on the goddamn maps! At least, not under that name."

"The traders must have given them very good directions."

"So good it's like our Waterville neighbors have been here before." Dean sighs noisily. "How stupid would a demon have to be to attack Ichabod again?"

"Very stupid, as well as suicidal," he answers. "Which none of the ones who led the attack on Ichabod were, including the two that escaped. For that matter, even if they were to try, the odds of successfully acquiring all the children is very, very low, especially considering there are at least twice the usual number of children at the daycare tonight and the precautions being taken to assure their safety."

Manuel and Teresa went over Ichabod's procedure for the protection of the children be with them this afternoon. Besides the patrol teams being rotated hourly at the daycare (now increased to two), Glenn and Serafina, with the help of the children's parents and those from Ichabod taking a shift at the daycare, have assured that all fifteen children are within line of sight of an armed adult at all times. After several days of preparation to harvest her strength should it be needed, Teresa raised the wards for the daycare as well as Ichabod itself at dusk the evening before and won't lower them until after the meeting of the Alliance. 

"I know." As a demonstration of Manuel and Teresa's experience in the art of defense, it was masterful, and there was very little he or Dean could contribute other than nods at key portions of the explanation and offer various possible scenarios from his and Dean's experience as hunters (in general, the Host's approach to defense was wholesale destruction of the enemy and all his works before they could attack: not useful in this case). "I can still think of ten ways to pull it off without even trying, and that's just the ones that end in failure and minimal casualties. Don't tell me you don't have a list."

"Only five so far," he admits. "All of which, however, would require far more knowledge of Ichabod's plans tonight--and ours, for that matter--than any demon could possibly have at this time."

"I'd be a lot happier if more of Ichabod's patrol didn't have their anti-possession sigils in permanent marker," Dean retorts, a sentiment that both Manuel and Teresa have expressed more than once. "Five towns, not a single tattoo gun between them."

"Or anyone who has the necessary artistic talent--and experience with a tattoo gun--to draw it without flaw," Castiel adds, though possession of a tattoo gun and sufficient ink would help with that problem a great deal. "I could draw it, but I'm not certain my maiden efforts with a tattoo gun--when one is found--will be accurate enough."

"I could do it--used to be able to, anyway," Dean says, looking at his right hand sourly. "I'd need practice. Everyone going on supply runs is under orders to check out tattoo places; once we have one, we may have to train people up to it. Bobby could do it blind."

"Bobby did mine," he hears himself say and shuts his mouth, wondering why he said that, considering its questionable relevancy to the current subject. "In any case…." He trails off, groping for what they were talking about. "What, specifically, are you worried about?"

"We still don't know how that one demon breached Ichabod's wards and got into Ichabod in the first place," Dean bursts out in frustration. "The other five might have come through with the Croats--Teresa can't tell _what_ sets 'em off, though she's working on that--but one of 'em was in the square before the attack started. Even if one of the guys working with 'em carried it to Grant before the daycare's wards went up, that demon still had to cross Ichabod's first. How?"

"A demon blocked by salt at a door or a window can still crawl on the roof and potentially break through it to get inside, depending on the size of the building and if they choose the right part to climb."

"You'd think they'd try that more often than never," Dean remarks. "Can't get past a salt circle though. And now that we've stated the obvious…."

"They could go under it, provided they did so without disturbing the circle directly." Dean raises his eyebrows. "Yes, it would take a demon with a very sophisticated understanding of the natural limits of a salt line or circle as well as a great deal of digging, which is rare, but we're speaking in theory."

"I get it; there's always a way, it's just a matter of someone figuring it out," Dean agrees impatiently. "No one dug a hole under Ichabod's wards; got anything else?"

"Consider it as a thought exercise," he says. "How did Jeffrey--or those other six demons--get past the barrier around Kansas in the first place?" Dean opens his mouth, probably to state they don't know (obviously), then stops, eyes narrowing. "It's possible the barrier doesn't extend underground, though considering its purpose and our state of relative peace, I doubt whoever did it overlooked that or any airborne options."

"Parachuting demons," Dean muses. "I'm trying to imagine it and keep getting stuck at--all of it, actually. Even a helicopter: it's just not working."

"Most demons avoid air travel if possible," he says as neutrally as possible. "That's not the point. The barrier around Kansas is impressively powerful and extremely sophisticated, but it's still based on the principles of warding, specifically protective wards. While nothing is certain in this world--or any world, for that matter--it's probable that whatever method made it possible to cross the barrier was also utilized to cross Ichabod's wards."

"Six smart demons," Dean says slowly. "And one very stupid one."

"Jeffrey."

"Who did it first, a month before the attack. Cas, you tell me; chances that Jeffrey's master and a group of six demons separately figured this out around the same time but no relation? Ballpark."

So that's blindingly obvious. "Lucifer spontaneously repenting."

"That's what I thought. Don't look like that; I missed it, too." Dean tilts his head toward the road and waits until Castiel falls into step beside him before continuing. "Six smart demons working together without someone bigger and scarier keeping them in line or from killing each other before the job's done? I'd almost buy that, but add in Jeffrey, that's too much coincidence. Which makes me wonder what the connection is between Jeffrey looking for you to tell you about his master wanting to be besties and the attack on Ichabod."

"Other than the fact I was at the church when the initial sacrifice was begun?" he replies. "If their master knew I was at the church, they'd assume I could tell them what the completed form of the circle looked like and possibly the names of the children involved, which would shorten the search for them considerably. There's no way their master could have known that I didn't even remember it then."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "And think you'd tell them?"

"Means to an end. With Dean dead, they may have assumed I'd agree that the needs of killing Lucifer to stop him would outweigh the needs of fifteen children to be alive." Dean's eyebrows climb higher. "And that I'd be amenable to that argument, which from a demon's perspective wouldn't be in question. Or from an angel's, for that matter," he admits, "which could be considered either a valid argument on relative versus absolute morality or an exercise in dramatic irony depending the company. It's not as if angels haven't slaughtered children for a presumed greater good." Dean adds amusement to incredulity. "Jeffery believe me when I said I was opening Purgatory to complete my conquest of earth! Obviously my reputation in Hell is somewhat different from that on Earth. Or at least in Chitaqua, and by that, I mean you."

"Thank you, Spock of Camp Chitaqua, we'll call that option one," Dean drawls after a significant (annoying) pause. "Or the more believable--and sane--option two: same master, two separate plans, both part of a much bigger plan with the probability there are more parts."

"I like option one more."

"Welcome to the club. I'd like this much better if Jeffrey's master actually thought 'Making a deal with Castiel, that's a plan that can't possibly fail' in conjunction with 'And I'll send Jeffrey to negotiate it'. You tell me where this breaks down, and that's even if we change the first part to 'Ask Castiel if he likes sugar in his coffee', you see where I'm going with this?"

"Jeffrey," he agrees glumly. 

"Jeffrey. Assuming anything he said was true and he wasn't pulling half that crap out of his ass on the spot--Christ, was the plan 'annoy you saying random shit' until you hit critical mass and took him back to Chitaqua to torture him just on principle?" 

"Gary."

"Gary," Dean repeats, nodding. "You got more for me?"

"He's not on the patrol teams and has spent most of the evening having sex with Laura in our headquarters when she's not on duty." Dean blinks at him. "They were making noise, Andy--never mind."

"Most of the time?"

"According to Lena, they paused to retrieve dinner," he explains. "But not to eat it."

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. "Right. Reason the mess has a no-sex-especially-involving-meatloaf rule."

"He's not listed on the shift roster and of everyone from Chitaqua here tonight, he's had the least exposure to the celebrants, including those who live in Ichabod," he continues. "We could--"

"Send him to the daycare as a volunteer to watch all these new people--like from fucking _Waterville_ \--who are bringing in their kids, see who sticks around too long, alert us if there's trouble," Dean finishes for him, nodding. "Good call. Assume smart demon who's aware of the problem with patrol changing hourly, armed teachers, and paranoid everyone: we tell Manuel, Amanda, and Glenn, no one else. No check-ins, no attention, give him guidelines on when to act and what to do--"

"If in doubt, start the daycare on fire."

Dean stops short. "Not where I was going with this and _what_?"

"The third floor playroom on the northwest side is still a work in progress and has roof access." If he needed verification that Dean is avoiding the daycare, Dean's quickly-hidden surprise is all he'd need; to better protect the most vulnerable of the daycare's regular occupants, the third floor is being fully remodeled for the occupation of those age five and younger. "There's sufficient flammable material in the room that can be used to start a controlled fire on the roof. It will appear very impressive and give off a large amount of smoke."

Dean nods blankly.

"The smoke will be easily visible from the northern windows of the daycare within six minutes," he continues. "Gary can then notice it, call for an evacuation of the daycare, and once evacuation is underway--"

"--good fucking luck trying to find fifteen separate kids," Dean finishes for him, looking a cross between horrified and impressed. "Much less get anyone to listen to threats while running for their lives from the non-existent flames."

"It's a method that's guaranteed to get everyone's attention without fail," he agrees. "Which is the last thing anyone performing a human sacrifice would want."

"Wow." Dean stares at him. "I never thought I'd say this and mean it, but that's so crazy it actually _will_ work."

"And retrieve one of the fifteen children if possible before starting the fire and take them to a safe location, preferably in Admin, perhaps a closet--"

"And we're back to _what_?" After a moment, Dean's shoulders slump from righteous indignation to resignation, and he closes his eyes, looking pained. "Guaranteeing they can't get one of them and slow 'em down if all else fails, fuck my life."

"You did specify we should assume this is a smart demon," he says, attempting 'apologetic' with no success whatsoever.

"Right." Dean sets his jaw, looking at him. "In case of emergency, tell him to commit arson with optional kidnapping; this is gonna go over really well."

"I don't think it counts if Manuel and Teresa approve."

"Yeah, I'm sure Alison will love that defense," he snorts. "Who's on duty at HQ right now?"

"Amanda, and Manuel is currently on duty for patrol while Teresa assists Alison in their social duties on behalf of Ichabod and the Alliance."

"Don't envy them that," Dean says sincerely. "Okay, Amanda can help us fill Gary in while one of us gets Manuel." They stare at each other before Dean sighs. "Rock, paper, scissors?"

He suppresses a shudder. "You get Manuel, and I'll retrieve Gary from the festivities on the third floor, which considering their predilection for condiments might involve barbecue sauce--" Dean steps forward, hand cupping his jaw and tilting his face up for a slow kiss, and he forgets what he was saying. Again.

"Thanks," Dean says breathlessly, fingers sliding down his cheek in a lingering caress before stepping back with visible reluctance, mouth curving in a pleased smile. "I owe you. Meet you at HQ in ten minutes." 

He licks his lips, nodding blankly. "Yes."

* * *

After Manuel leaves with Gary (still somewhat sulky, though surely he's exhausted his current supply of bodily fluids by now and should for his own safety take a break), Dean sighs, hopping onto the table that Castiel is leaning against. "Anything else I should have thought of before now? Never too late to find out what else I missed." 

Straddling a chair, Amanda rests her chin on her crossed arms over the back. "Waterville, Christ. Of all places. Didn't they call us whores of Satan or something?"

"Harlots," Castiel corrects her in amusement. "I was rather impressed at their use of somewhat archaic--and wildly inaccurate--terminology while indulging in inadvertent irony."

"Irony?" Dean asks.

"Harlots," he says. "Even if Lucifer didn't think sex was a grotesquerie outside of procreation--"

"Wait," Amanda interrupts, straightening. "Lucifer doesn't like sex?"

"It's one of his major objections to humanity's existence, though a still-distant third to being my Father's favorite and free will," he explains, shrugging at Amanda and Dean's incredulous expressions. "Not sex itself, but sex without purpose, which would in his view be anything not performed strictly in service to procreation. He doesn't approve of fun in general, not understanding what it is or why people want to have it, and literally anything that may in any way great or small decrease human misery is anathema, of course."

"I would _not_ have called that one," Dean says in awe. "Wait, I thought angels--"

"No, among angels that particular objection to its existence is an anomaly," he says. "Speaking generally, few members of the Host given opportunity to engage in fornication with humans abstained from philosophical objections; in Creation, sexual intercourse for recreation was a very new innovation and many wanted to try it to better understand our Father's…." How to put this. "…plan and will."

"Angels wanted to fuck humans to get closer to God?" Amanda asks blankly.

" _Benedictus qui venit_ ," he agrees, and beside him, Dean starts to choke. " _Dei gratia_ , of course." 

"What did you just say?" she asks suspiciously, looking between them.

"Let's say it works better if you don't actually know Latin but are familiar with American sexual euphemisms," he replies. "As I was saying, fornication was a popular activity for the Host in times past, even among those who professed such activity was beneath an angel when not done for--research, I suppose. Those that abstained usually did so from lack of opportunity or particular interest--in vessels, biological imperatives are suppressed--though after the entire incident that produced Nephilim and war on earth and in Heaven, trauma was also a factor."

He receives twin nods.

"So as Lucifer would never pay for sex," he finishes in satisfaction, "'harlots' is inaccurate on concept. And implying we work for him is utterly ridiculous."

"Because we were talking about Waterville trying to kill us and the use of shitty terminology that's also inaccurate and you clarified just how much," Dean says after a long pause, nodding to himself. "Thanks, Cas."

"When did he start doing that?" Amanda demands. "He just used to mock us without telling us why."

"People skills," Castiel tells her. "Instead of mockery, I attempt to explain why someone is wrong and provide context. I understand that shows I'm interested and engaged during conversation and decreases the chances they'll interpret it as hostile."

Amanda's eyes narrow on Dean. "You."

"I had no idea how personally gratifying this method of communication could be," he adds thoughtfully.

"Orgasms make you healthier and less likely to beat the shit out of people," Dean says with a sigh. "That's why we don't go into heat or do some long fucking word--"

"Partho--"

"Shut up," Dean interrupts, still looking at Amanda. "I don't know what that is and I like that. Can we talk about anything--and I do mean anything--that's not this? Ever again?"

"All in favor," Amanda says, and she and Dean both inexplicably raise their hands. "Motion passes, moving on. Waterville: where else? You think Manuel kept a list?"

"Why would he?" Castiel asks, disliking democracy a great deal. "Assuming those arriving aren't lying, of course."

"He's a hunter: curiosity and habit just in case it comes back to kill you," Dean answers, one foot kicking idly. "If I know Manuel, he remembers every town that patrol mentioned, how many, and exactly how sketchy they looked. He trained Ichabod's patrol; they're probably reporting exactly that after every shift. Why?"

"No reason," Amanda says, resting her head on one hand. "Just be a little suspicious if one person shows up from a random town for no reason to party down. Or one at a time, even."

"See what you can get by way of town name and numbers with 'em," Dean says. "Talk to whoever's on patrol, tell 'em to be casual about it, no pressure and coordinate with whoever's on duty at Admin for Ichabod's patrol. Anything jumps out, come get us, otherwise, we'll bring up it up at the meeting later. Just in case this is a really smart demon and has a better plan than failing at attempted ritual human sacrifice in the middle of a big party with Chitaqua in attendance."

"I agree," he says when Dean looks at him queryingly. "Alert whoever is stationed here to get that information from patrol after their shifts and report to--"

"Me," Amanda says, rolling her eyes. "You got discipline, I'll handle reports."

"And me?" Dean asks, crossing his arms. "I'm not just decorative here."

"Have fun," Amanda responds with a grin, getting to her feet. "And on that note, get out of here and do it. Check out the bonfire, get some snacks, make out anywhere you see a dark corner, not judging or anything--"

"You should try it sometime," Dean says with a smirk, and Amanda's eyes narrow dangerously. "Might help you relax, just saying."

"You--"

"We should get to the bonfire," Dean says, reaching for Castiel's arm and tugging him unresistingly toward the door while Castiel calculates how quickly he'll need to move if Amanda uses that chair for evil (throwing it in Dean's mocking face, for example). Glancing back at Amanda (for Dean lacks even a rudimentary sense of self-preservation), he adds, "Have fun."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet you're thinking to yourself, God, that math is all made up right? Ha, no, I wrote equations for this after I proofed it all. Boom, I...did that. Huh.
> 
> ...I wrote an entire page of functions in a VBA module with a set of public constants to work out the exact square footage available and how many people could be accommodated at a street party in Ichabod with an average twenty-percent disregard for unusable space. And the length of the patrol route which isn't even used in here because plot. On some level, this should worry me, but you have any idea how to get the area of a parabola? No, really, I did a DW entry about it while editing. For...I don't even know anymore. Fun, though.


	3. Chapter 3

_\--Day 150 continued--_

Despite the short period of time they were in HQ, Fourth Street already hosts a considerable number of the celebrants, including several vendors of alcohol setting up on the sidewalks as well as those with goods for trade. Unsurprisingly, the eastern side of Fourth Street has the greatest concentration so far. Roughly two hundred feet from the last standing building and within Teresa's ward line (and the revised patrol route, he assumes), the bonfire is located in what appears to be the parking lot of a strip of stores, though all that remains are concrete foundations and badly cracked asphalt. The rubble was only recently cleared and set in discrete piles for use as another barrier against attacks, which Tony and Walter are currently working on designing.

He slows as they approach the end of the street, watching the flames licking yellow-red tongues over the piled wood and toward the sky. It's nearly fifteen feet in height and twice that in width, the progress of the fire slower than he's accustomed to. Insufficient quantities of accelerants, probably; they have to be applied during the construction so as not to miss a single piece of fuel.

"Cas?"

Or they aren't using them; of course not, why would they? Accelerants are for when your purpose is to burn quickly and thoroughly, increasing the heat to burn flesh and blood into ash, crumbling bone into blackened splinters, not for a fire created for pleasure. An electric orange flare bursts from the top, and for a dizzying moment, he remembers the last burn that he stood witness, consuming the bodies of the team leaders who followed Dean Winchester to that fatal encounter with Lucifer and died in the streets of Kansas City, to buy him the time that he needed. 

The one before that didn't require any fuel but an archangel's Grace. He watched a single human body burned to ash before his eyes while Lucifer smiled at him over all that remained of his world entire.

"Cas?"

He didn't even realize he'd stopped until Dean's hand closes over his arm, tugging him unresistingly until abruptly, he's leaning against rough brick, the dimly-lit alley stretched cool and quiet around him.

"Hey, look at me." Gentle hands coax him to turn his head until he looks into worried green eyes. "There we go," Dean murmurs. "Talk to me, Cas. You okay?"

"I didn't understand," he hears himself say, eyes drifting helplessly toward the orange-lit mouth of the alley, streaked with dancing red-gold. "When we were at Alpha when we--when we…."

"Uh-uh," Dean says, hand tightening on his jaw until the orange vanishes even from peripheral vision. "Me, Cas. Alpha--what happened?" He glances briefly at the mouth of the alley before looking at him again. "Your first burn, right?"

He nods jerkily. "I went to--I was required to attend them all. I _resented_ it," he adds. "It took time that I could have spent learning everything I needed to know, but Dean said--he said everyone went and so I had to as well."

"Whole camp went, yeah," Dean says, nodding. "That's where Chitaqua got it, I wondered about that. Makes sense."

"It didn't to me." He stiffens at the admission, but Dean's expression is reassuringly free of frustration and anger, the barely-hidden flickers of distaste that Dean then was unable to entirely hide. "It was simply practical. Human bodies are salted and burned to break their binding with the earth, so that their souls could find rest and their bodies couldn't be used after their souls left them." Dean nods encouragingly. "Why they wrapped it in ritual and required there be an audience made no sense. It didn't mean anything…." He stops at the familiar sound of those words, words that he'd thrown at Dean more times than he wants to count when they were at Alpha and never spoke again after they left. Leaning back against the cold brick, he hears himself start to laugh. "It didn't mean anything."

"Until it did." Dean cocks his head, green eyes searching. "Bobby. It was Bobby."

"The first burn at Chitaqua." He tips his head back to stare up at the slice of night sky, roiling in shades of charcoal and soot. "Dean brought him back, and we--Chuck went with one of the new recruits for the correct supplies. We didn't have them yet." A melting plastic grin spreads across his face. "You would have hated it, Dean. We had five hundred weapons per person and only two cabins with running water, three jeeps of rock salt and nothing but canned beans and spam to eat in a camp meant to hunt monsters but no provisions with which to care for the remains of the hunters they killed but a few lighters and a great deal of brush. There wasn't even--even a clean sheet with which to wrap his body.

"When Chuck returned, we--Dean and I prepared his body," he continues, smile fading. "Decomposition and--it was too much of a risk. I asked Dean to let me bathe and dress him while he prepared his shroud, and we wrapped him together while Chuck directed the recruits on how to build his pyre." 

He closes his eyes, remembering spreading out the sheet without crease, brushing away stray grass and dirt before Dean laid Bobby in the center. Without expression, they stripped Bobby of his belt and cross and salt and knives, checked his pockets and removed his boots. Starting at Bobby's feet, Dean taught Castiel how to wrap him with every slow, crisp fold, tucking the flaps in with brisk efficiency with hands he refused to let shake.

They opened the door to air as soaked in gasoline as the freshly cut branches layered with grass and dry scrub and salt, the sound of the recruits voices cutting off as they laid Bobby's body carefully in the center of the pile of inexpertly-piled wood. Dean lit the torch just as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, thrusting it into the wood, and the dulled yellows and grey-pink of the setting sun fading before the yellow-gold sparks and flares of bright orange. The minutes passed like days, hours like decades as the flames climbed in inexorable red-orange tongues before hungrily consuming the white-wrapped bundle between one breath and the next. Dean's hand rested on his shoulder from the first spark until nothing but ash and blackened ground remained, but it wasn't until dawn that he saw in the mirror the shape of Dean's fingers picked out in purple-black against his skin, and looked down blankly at the bloody crescents decorating the palm of each hand, fingertips coated in dried blood.

This was mortality, he realized; not this corporeal body that he was trapped within, this finite world and the endless progression of linear time before the final cessation of life. It was a three week absence that would never end, a freshly painted bedroom whose occupant would never see it, a newly-built wheelchair ramp that would never again be used, an oven and refrigerator left unrepaired, a door unhung; it was ashes and dust where there was an extraordinary man, a gaping absence that could never be filled, a grief that ripped and tore with every endless, airless breath in a world so much smaller, so much colder for a single man's absence. He thought the hardest thing he would ever do is Fall for Dean; he didn't know the meaning of the word.

Then he's pulled away from the brick and against the warmth of a living, breathing body, arms wrapping around him before he can pull away or even think to try. 

"S'okay," he hears Dean whisper when he tries to speak and only a choked sound emerges. "Come on, let it out."

Forehead resting against a strong shoulder, he remembers the pre-dawn hours he spent digging the hole for Dean's ashes only inches from where he placed Bobby's. Opening the body bag, they puffed up in grey clouds as he poured them into the salt-lined hole, clinging to his hands and coating his tongue with every sobbing breath. Kneeling by the fresh mound of dirt and hidden by the protective circle of trees, he looked at the two places that he'd buried the breadth of his world entire and wondered at the lie that no one dies from grief. Parts of him lie with them beneath the same cold dirt, have burned to nothing in every fire.

"That night--the team leaders--I didn't see you, but you were there," Dean murmurs unexpectedly, fingers threading though his hair. "Drinking on the roof of that cabin by the fire, right?"

Startled, he pulls back enough to look at Dean. "How did you--"

"Bottle was half-empty when you gave it to me," Dean answers with a faint smile. "No one showing up for the regularly scheduled orgy that night--or the next morning--might have also been a clue." Despite himself, Castiel chokes on a laugh. "Going to a burn and then drinking alone the rest of the night…don't even need to ask where you picked up that habit." Leaning closer, Dean rests his forehead against his own. "You risked Lucifer to make sure Dean's body was burned while you watched. You hated the team leaders, but you were still there. You go to all of them, don't you?"

"Every one." He thinks of Bobby, of Risa and the other team leaders who died in Kansas City; of Luke and Debra and the unknown number of deaths that preceded theirs, the responsibility he bears for them all despite only Luke died by his hand; of the members of Chitaqua who died in the line of duty in service to humanity. Their bodies were only empty shells that once housed vibrant, living souls, but it felt like a second death to consign them to the flames: _ashes to ashes and dust to dust_ : as they began, so shall they end. He was never sober, never clean, but he stood witness each and every time, watching existence end like the last spark of the fire burning out and leaving nothing behind but a memory to mark their presence on earth. "Now I understand why we do it."

Dean nods. "Yeah."

"It's different for everybody," he whispers. "Time heals nothing. It's not a test. If it is, surviving is all I have to do to pass." _Nothing works until you figure out how to even want to._

"Almost," Dean whispers, tipping his head up and meeting his eyes. "You don't have to do it alone."

He looks into the green eyes of the man that made him want to try, cheeks flushed with cold and lips parted on an indrawn breath that shudders to a stop when Castiel kisses him. The stillness barely has a chance to register before Dean hand slides up, fingers threading through his hair and cushioning his head from the icy brick of the wall behind him. He eases closer, extending the brief touch into a steady warmth that lasts forever.

The sudden sound of nearby laughter only feet away shatters the fragile silence, and Castiel emerges into the reality of a freezing alley in a southern Kansas town, but when Dean draws back, it's only far enough to rest his forehead against his own, breath pluming white between them. 

"You okay?"

Strangely enough, he thinks he is. Nodding, there's a brief hesitation before Dean reluctantly straightens.

"We can go cheat at poker for a hell of a lot of brownies," Dean offers, belatedly shoving his hands on his pockets as if he's not sure what to do with them. You don't have to do this, he doesn't say. It's not a test. 

Castiel glances involuntarily toward the mouth of the alley, the reflection of the dancing fire on the road outside, and slowly shakes his head. Everything's a test, but this is one he sets for himself; it's part of the life Dean wants him to live and just surviving isn't enough to pass. He wants to live it, with Dean. "I want to see it."

* * *

As they pick their way between the various groups and couples--who even in the short time between his first view and now have doubled, perhaps even tripled in number--Castiel finds welcome distraction in the crowd, snatches of conversation and sudden bursts of laughter, the unexpectedly familiar faces appearing among them that smile, wave greeting that he finds himself returning without thought. 

Sudha, only a few feet from the outside edge, is seated on a blanket and leaning back against Rabin's chest as she talks to Neeraja, one hand resting on her protruding stomach as she nods at something that Anthi, sitting on Neeraja's other side, is saying. On another blanket nearby, Tony is talking to Dennis and two other residents of Ichabod, his youngest daughter asleep beneath a blanket in his lap while the older one, tucked beneath his arm, listens intently while holding a steaming mug with another resident's child dozing beneath a blanket across her legs.

Studying the crowd again more carefully, he picks out the presence of more children sprinkled among the adults, sleeping or talking or simply watching the fire with wide eyes. Reviewing the celebration thus far, he's startled to note how many of them have been present, either among the crowd or gathered at tables with their parents or in adult arms, playing hunter-and-demon between piles of rubble or ducking into doorways of buildings, excited shrieks echoing through the dull roar of conversation under indulgent adult eyes. 

Humans adapt, he told Dean, and in terms of both evolution and society, what is nature and what is choice, it's true, but never more than at this moment has it been so visceral. Isolated and rejected by their own governments, preyed on by monsters whittling away their numbers in a world now without any context their lives could have given them to recognize, they adapted. They changed enough to do it, they made themselves fit to survive it, and they're raising a new generation learning what their parents sometimes paid with their own lives to teach them. In between life and imminent death, however, they have barbecue and masala to eat and alcohol to drink and companions to share it with, lives to be lived before a fire to chase away the winter's cold.

Lost in his own thoughts, he almost runs into Dean, who's come to a sudden stop, eyes fixed on a point a few feet away and looking amused. "What--"

"Shh." Dean covers his mouth with a stern glance, shaking his head firmly before looking back at whatever gained his attention. Following his gaze, Castiel sees Alicia seated by the town's young engineer, Walter, just a few feet away.

"….engineering," Walter is telling Alicia, waving a plastic cup with a flaking image of a mouse with surprisingly large ears on the surface and almost hitting a nearby neighbor. Glancing at Dean, Castiel sees him biting his lip as Walter continues seriously, "You have to know exactly how to stack the wood or it could all come down on top of us. Not easy, not gonna lie about that. You know about what went down at A&M in Texas a few year ago, right?" 

"Oh yeah." Alicia nods as she takes a drink from her own cup (a stylized cat, he observes, and the word 'Hello' barely legible just above its oversized head, with the second word completely worn away). "Unbelievable."

Castiel looks at Dean, who shrugs, and he misses yet again Google and the ability to enter '+"A and M" +Texas' into the text box and see immediate results (with '+bonfire', perhaps?). Even as an angel, searching his infinite memory was only as useful as his own understanding of what it was he searched for, and the lack of keyword capability in their design continues to be an inexplicable oversight by his Father, all things considered. Or at least decent algorithm capabilities, a word that Enochian lacks and desperately needs.

"Gotta give the guy credit for balls," Dean murmurs as Walter begins to explain the complicated process of selecting and arranging the wood for optimal results with many complicated hand gestures (and nearly concussing a young man behind him). Nodding, Alicia surreptitiously scans the area around her, cup coming to an abrupt halt inches from her mouth when she sees them. Dean gives her a thumbs-up and a malicious smile, ignoring her narrowed eyes to wind a hand in Castiel's coat and continue their journey toward a still unknown (to Castiel, anyway) destination. "He's a nice kid. She'll let him down easy."

Glancing back curiously, he notes Alicia's determined attention to Walter's surprisingly lengthy monologue before turning his attention to Walter himself. While like most of the residents of Ichabod he's very thin for his height and body type, he seems to satisfy most human aesthetics of attractiveness; the close-cropped, curly black hair surrounds a dark brown face with wide, sharply intelligent brown eyes and a full mouth that seems inclined to smile easily, implying a pleasant personality and adequate sense of humor (having met him, Castiel knows both qualities he has in excess). While lust is biological (and Walter in no way lacks anything that might not incite such), attraction is far more capricious, and the standard changes rapidly, often based on nothing more than availability and proximity.

"Are you checking him out?" Dean breathes in his ear, startling him, and turning his head, it's another surprise to find Dean watching him. "Seriously?"

The answer to that question is obvious. "Of course not." At Dean's raised eyebrows, he assumes elaboration is needed, though from observation, that usually doesn't help at all. "I don't see why she wouldn't consider him a viable partner now that she's no longer involved with Kyle."

"Other than he's just reached drinking age _maybe_ and lives in Ichabod?" Dean cocks his head, eyes narrowing, but Castiel realizes he's trying not to smile only moments before he does it. "Not a bad idea, now that I think about it. Think she could tempt him to Chitaqua to build us a power grid of our very own?"

"I think Alison might kill us--possibly quite literally with her mind--if we take their only working electrical engineer," he answers repressively, not certain why Dean begins to snicker before one hand closes casually over his wrist as they start walking again. "And that's only if Tony doesn't find out first. Where are we--"

"Dean! Over here!" James's voice comes out of nowhere, and scanning the crowd, he locates James, Mira, and Nate sharing a blanket a few feet away, an array of half-filled cups and several bottles before them. James gestures toward them frantically, reaching blindly across Mira to jostle Nate, who looks annoyed before seeing them and obediently following Mira's nudging to move over to provide a narrow space on the blanket. The space increases substantially when Mira pulls James over close enough that with very little effort (that being none at all), she could be in his lap. Both, he notes, look extremely pleased with that development.

"If they were any cuter," Dean observes, "I'd go into sugar shock just looking at 'em."

As they reach the group, Dean starts to remove his coat, muttering, "Jesus, it's like summer over here," and Castiel considers the ambient temperature and proximity of the fire and decides to do the same. Dean almost immediately tugs him down on the blanket beside him, taking the offered cup from James and murmuring something that makes James smile back worshipfully, brown eyes bright. 

Castiel doesn't remember James ever looking at Dean's counterpart like that, eager smiles and confident in his welcome with his leader. Then again, Dean has found reasons over the course of James' time on local patrol to seek him out and speak to him, as he's also done with Damiel and Lee, expressing approval for their growing experience as well as ask questions about their lives both here and even before. James is becoming a very competent leader, not least in his developing rapport with his team, especially Nate, who looks less hunted tonight than he has in weeks. Being away from Chitaqua is probably a factor, but Castiel suspects the company may bear equal responsibility.

Vera's acidic comments regarding Zack as well as Nate were as unexpected as they were revelatory. Zack's predilection to air his grievances to the camp may have been justified--if somewhat excessive--but the near-universal condemnation of Nate expressed in so small a community was uncomfortable to witness, and Nate's startlingly well-developed ability to ignore it has been starting to show wear. _He hates himself_ , Vera said; watching Mira nudge Nate to try her drink and laughing at his expression, he wonders if perhaps James and Mira know a great deal about living a life in which some will always think you live it wrong simply because of what you were born and try to teach you to hate yourself for it.

As Dean laughs at a murmured comment from Nate as he hands Mira back the cup, he passes his drink to Castiel to sample, right hand dropping to rest his knee, thumb stroking over the denim before settling without a single tap. Pausing, he consider the afternoon and evening as a whole; Dean's never been adverse to physical contact, no, but this is both deliberate and with specific meaning when exercised in public. 

As one of the few generally accepted public expressions of intimacy, his observations always suggested its function was to denote simple possession, a silent yet unmistakable warning against trespass. It is most definitely that--this is Dean, after all--but it's also more. It occurs to him that at no point did he take into account how the object--that being person--would view the casual gesture, possibly because he was far too drunk, high, or involved with generally non-acceptable public expressions of intimacy--that being sex--to particularly care. 

"Okay?" Dean murmurs in his ear, tapping lightly against the side of his knee in a sequence that might denote departure, or perhaps he's asking about the alcohol, which he can't even remember tasting. He thinks of the way Dean took his hand when the crowd became too close; that was a statement as well, but the quick, reassuring pressure as they walked away wasn't for observers to witness and take as warning, but for him alone to feel.

"Yes." Whatever the actual question, the answer is obvious. "Very much, yes."

"Awesome." Dean follows that with a brief, approving squeeze, and Castiel looks down at the cup distractedly, studying the faded picture on the surface and trying to identify it since he's almost sure that suggesting a convenient alley--the one two hundred and thirty-two feet from their current location, quite dark, hopefully empty--is not socially acceptable after only five minutes of social engagement (he thinks). For he must be a good example or something like that, though at this moment the reason for that eludes him. 

"The Yankees," Dean tells him, taking it back and sipping absently, eyes scanning the people around them before nudging him with his shoulder. "Check it out--looks like Alicia's letting him down easily. Watch this, Cas--this is the most potentially useful people skill you probably never knew existed."

"I've been turned down before, and declined participation as well," Castiel protests, which for some reason makes Dean roll his eyes. Following his gaze, he watches Alicia gesture, smiling and patting Walter's shoulder companionably as she fluidly rises to her feet before Walter finishes opening his mouth and adding a wave good-bye. Stepping carefully between several groups, she searches the crowd, and Castiel quickly returns his attention to the very fascinating fire.

Abruptly, Dean reaches back for his coat and tosses it on the bare concrete on the other side of Castiel, which is all the warning he gets before Alicia drops onto it with a sigh.

"Thanks, Dean," she says, flashing a grin as she pulls up her knees. Dean thrusts a full cup into his hand, jerking his head toward Alicia with a meaningful look, as if that's supposed to convey--oh. 

Turning, he holds it out to Alicia as Dean suddenly engages James in conversation. "Honeyed apple cider and grain alcohol untyped," he says into the silence between them as Alicia looks at the cup. "The proportions could use some adjustment, but it's not terrible."

"Coming from you, that's as good as an endorsement," she decides, eyebrows working at the first careful sip. "Not bad, thanks."

Satisfied with the not-entirely-mediocre flavor, Alicia takes a longer drink. In the flickering light from the fire, the violet shadows beneath her eyes are thrown into stark relief, strain revealed in the tight lines around her mouth, tension lingering in her body even now when it's at rest, and he doubts any of that is a result of her conversation with Walter. When Amanda asked him how Alicia was this morning before they left, he couldn't remember, but he wonders if it was as obvious then as it is now; the answer, he suspects, is yes.

"You know," Alicia starts, hands flexing on the cup frantically before she takes the remaining contents at a gulp. "Nice fire--"

"If you try to make me engage in small talk, you'll be mowing Chitaqua until there is no grass left," Castiel interrupts. "You're worse at it than I am, and this time neither of us have the motivation to get through it that we had the first time we tried."

Alicia's startled expression melts into remembrance. "God, I forgot about that. Most of the time, gotta work up toward that kind of thing, admire the paint or furniture or whatever first, like I care, but people get put off for the stupidest reasons, am I right? Just do what you gotta do, that's what I always say."

"I still have no idea what you were talking about that day," he admits, taking her empty cup and passing it to Dean for a refill, who is suspiciously already turned around as if anticipating just that.

"I don't either," she agrees, shaking her head. "Glad you stopped me; that could have gone on for a while."

Dean thrusts the cup back into his hand and leans forward. "Okay, catch me up; what _are_ you talking about?"

"First time I propositioned Cas," she answers, taking the cup from Dean. "They don't cover 'how to ask an ex-angel about getting laid' _anywhere_ , you know?"

Dean blinks at her, lips parted, but no words seem forthcoming

"I asked around," she clarifies, taking a drink before offering the cup to Castiel. "Just to be sure. Then Ray was like 'just wing it'; he was high in a group setting when he did it, so that was useful, thanks." Shaking her head, she takes back the cup before looking struck. "Wallpaper."

"Wallpaper?" Dean asks blankly, seemingly unaware he has yet to lower his hand from when he was holding out the cup.

"In the cabin," she explains, looking pleased.

"The cabin had wallpaper?" 

"No," Castiel says reassuringly. "It's a frequent subject of small talk, however."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "It is?"

Alicia nods. "How are you, weather, pictures, furniture, wallpaper, carpet, and coffee table books, though not necessarily in that order. Mix it up, that's what I always say: predictability is not your friend."

Dean shuts his mouth.

"Weather, floor--no, I commented on the bed--liked the blanket, extremely red-- _then_ wallpaper in noting the lack thereof," she continues blithely. "Then Cas said, 'are you here for any reason other than to engage in sexual intercourse, because if so, I don't care'. And I said no, definitely sex and now, you up for it, and…wait." She stops, peering at Dean curiously. "Am I supposed to talk about sex with Cas around you now?"

Castiel waits (he's rather curious as well) while Dean looks between them. "Uh. I."

"It was like, last time was eight months--"

"Six and a half, after your last patrol of Topeka," Castiel corrects her.

"Right, the not-trolls!" Alicia sighs happily, taking another drink before passing the cup to Castiel. "It was great; they were made entirely of magic mud, bullets no go but stab 'em with cold iron soaked in holy water, they crumbled into a pile of dirt right before your eyes. Who saw that coming? Answer: me, for I know everything." He hears Dean snort. "I had such a good time, got like six of 'em before everyone else got with the program. And an even better time when I got back to camp: thought Cas would want to know about artificial constructs mimicking trolls--and not very well, you know what I mean? It wasn't even clay, like that was gonna work--and then Cas said, how about we--"

"No, you shouldn't," Dean interrupts, looking inordinately relieved when Alicia simply nods, finishing off the cup when Castiel hands it back. "Just--it's weird."

"People say that a lot," Alicia observes wisely, shoving the empty cup into Dean's still-extended hand. "It's fine, to each their own, I always say. Refill, please?"

Dean starts to say something before taking a visible breath and turning away to elicit James' assistance. Leaning her chin on her knee, Alicia frowns at the fire for a moment before looking up at Castiel hopefully. "Bad couple of weeks, needed not to think, terrible idea I know, it's over now, I can do the long version but it's the same just a lot more words. And sorry; I should have started with that, but apologies are stressful and I never remember the right order."

"What did Matt and Jody say?" he asks curiously; it's a given that Andy probably didn't notice due to being very busy having feelings.

"When one is stressed and in need of intensive not-thinking, one informs one's friends and/or teammates that is what one will be doing," she recites. "And not hide in one's bedroom with the door locked and furniture blocking it when they come to find out why one is being a dick."

"That's reasonable."

"I thought so, too," she agrees, brightening. "Addendum: or leave friends with unfinished dryer-elf traps and a tentative plan to practice surprise ambush strategies on members of the camp to improve their reflexes and awareness of their surroundings, and I was really looking forward to that. We can still do that when we get back, right? I have so many ideas, and we have three nets and six gallons of yellow paint--neon, even--in inventory. I checked."

Utilizing his already excellent reflexes, Castiel catches the full cup before Dean drops it. "Not on you, of course," he explains, giving the cup to Alicia. "We just thought--with the lack of active combat--that everyone's skills regarding watching for unexpected threats may be degrading."

"What," Dean says slowly, "are you going to do to my camp?"

"We only just started the list, so really, could be anything," Alicia answers with a happy sigh. "The possibilities are endless."

"Right," Dean says, taking a long drink from his own cup. "So, how about Walter? Nice kid."

"I know, right?" she answers, shaking her head. "I forgot what it was like to talk to someone who I couldn't identify by their scars and which ones I'd been responsible for stitching up. Then I realized he was hitting on me--at least, I think he was, that's what he was doing, right?"

"Yeah, that's what he was doing," Dean agrees sincerely.

"I thought so," she says in satisfaction, resting her arm on her upraised knees. "I've been practicing my social skills upon all the residents I meet to demonstrate we aren't crazy, as you told us at HQ."

"Oh God," Dean says.

"Let me demonstrate," she states, dropping her knees and half-turning to face Castiel. "Are you having a good time at this celebration marking the end of the year?"

"I am," he agrees, as Dean's head drops against his shoulder, and if he's not mistaken, he may be shaking. "It's been very entertaining. Are you?"

"I am as well," she answers politely. "Also, I'm not crazy or visibly armed, and as I represent the residents of Chitaqua, this should confirm we are trustworthy and likeable. Would you please tell my leader that if you see him? Use those words, actually: 'trustworthy' and 'likeable'. He was very adamant that we not terrify you and told us all about it for an hour of my life I'm never getting back."

"So everyone thinks we're really well armed social rejects," Dean mutters before resting his chin on Castiel's shoulder. "Also, fuck you, it wasn't an hour."

"I understand it felt like decades," Castiel says and tries not to wince at the sharp dig of Dean's chin. "Or so I heard."

"Kyle was snoring," Alicia says maliciously. "Do with that what you will."

Dean bursts into laughter, head dropping against his shoulder again before James solicits his attention, and Alicia sips from her cup before abruptly pulling her leg closer, tugging up the leg of her jeans and pulling out a familiar looking knife, pure white blade gleaming in the light of the fire.

"So," she says, putting down the cup and turning it. "Nice knife."

He nods agreement. "Ceramic coating over titanium alloy core."

"I noticed that," she agrees, flipping it one-handed and rolling the narrow hilt between her fingers with the ease of an expert, which she is. "Nice weight, too. And you can split a hair on this blade; I did three, one mine."

He considers asking who volunteered the other two and decides against it. Alicia continues flipping it idly, speeding and slowing the rotation while testing different holds on the hilt before catching it at different points along the blade. Amanda (looking queasy) always tells Alicia that she's going to lose a finger one day doing that, which is possible (as all things are) but unlikely, and in any case, Alicia always replies that she has ten and can afford the loss. This close, he can mark out the delicate tracery of scars that decorate both hands up to her wrists, some nearly invisible, others hard ridges when they required stitches to close. Gun and knife calluses overlap heavily, but she also carries on the thumb and first finger on both hands those associated with throwing knives, and the heavily muscled webbing between is an indicator of someone who's primary weapon isn't a gun but a blade.

Even Amanda has never quite gained this casual ease, but from the first time Alicia picked up a fighting knife, she's always been like this. For Alicia, it's both avocation and devotion; at this moment, it's also a very thorough demonstration (to him) that she's already examined it thoroughly and has taken it to the practice field to begin adapt her routines to its specific properties, discovering the best way to use it with her body.

"I gave one to Amanda as well," he says, picking up the cup and taking a drink to avoid examining while he feels defensive. "I should have done it before, so--you and she would best know how to use it. It's a necessary part of your arsenal, and I was negligent in providing you with--that part."

"Right," Alicia says, catching it between her forefinger and thumb just above the hilt and letting the blade slide between them until she's holding only the dangerously sharp tip before flipping it higher with a delighted smile, for Alicia also very much enjoys what she can do. "I saw hers at Insert Winter Holiday and didn't even steal it--though I could have after shot five of vodka and maple syrup--and regretted that I didn't all night until I saw this on the table the next morning when I got home."

He nods firmly, taking another drink.

"With a ribbon around the hilt," she adds, looking at him curiously as she flattens her palm for the next catch, letting the hilt land on the knuckles and roll down to the heel before closing her fingers around it. 

"Now you're just showing off," he points out.

"Purple," she says in satisfaction. "No card, but I know everything and also, no one else can tie a bow a la Gordian knot for cutting it purposes." She turns it in admiration. "This thing can cut anything and I did test this a lot."

"Did you blood it yet?"

"First thing I did on the practice field," she confirms, turning her right hand so he can see the new line stretching from just below the knuckle on her thumb almost to the wrist, nearly healed. "Not on Kyle."

He makes a face. "Of course not: it's a new blade."

"Exactly." Sliding the knife back into its sheathe, she gives him a sunny smile. "Thank you."

He extends the cup to her. "You're welcome."

Taking it, she looks around them curiously. Despite being human and certainly far more familiar with the behavior of her own kind, the look on her face as she observes the people around them is much like the one he's felt on his own tonight. 

Glancing up at him, she shrugs, nose wrinkling thoughtfully. "Trying to work out how to how make a defensive line around a group this big with no barriers to help out. What do you think?"

Castiel frowns, eyes drawn to the fire and measuring its length again, remembering what he'd heard Walter say about it: an engineering problem. To prevent unexpected collapse, he assumes, but that doesn't mean there isn't a way to do it deliberately. Even in its current form, however, it could be very useful.

"The fire would be adequate as a barrier in the short-term," he answers. "In an attack from the east it could be used as part of the perimeter while everyone is moved to a more defensible location."

"The nearest building is…" She lifts her head, finding the street and calculating the distance. "Two hundred fifty, give or take, but let's go with three to four hundred and be excited if the first door opens. First two on either side of the street aren't marked red, so they're structurally stable enough to get everyone in, but not so sure about defensibility. We should have checked that when they opened up the street."

They should have, he reflects in annoyance. "The first problem is how to move everyone quickly enough to minimize casualties."

"Gunshot, maybe?" she offers, hooking an arm around her knee. "Joe's on the northwest edge right now; quick shot in the air to get them moving--"

"We can't risk them responding in uncontrolled panic," he interrupts, thinking worriedly of Tony and the children cradled in his arms, the elderly and disabled whose wheelchairs and canes and crutches would make evacuation difficult at the best of times. Many of them are currently on the southern side of the bonfire and would be the first victims of a sudden rush, especially one from the northeast. "That will cause as many if not more injuries than those inflicted by their attackers. Nor can everyone run."

Looking into the darkness to the east, he frowns. All that open land and not a single barrier in sight on this side of the street, the piles of rubble from the destroyed buildings carefully placed for the convenience of cleared streets and easy passage and therefore useless for defense. If there was time, it would be relatively simple to move them, piled strategically to impede attackers and buying time to move everyone to a safer location, and if the piles were placed prudently, very few people would be needed to create a working perimeter and allow the people here time to escape. If he started now…two or three days from now, he might have an easily climbable barrier complete. There must be a better way to do this; humanity invented the internet, after all.

"If only that rubble was closer," he says, pointing toward the closest pile, "we could use it and the fire itself for the temporary perimeter line and buy time for a more controlled method of escape--"

"I see it," Alicia interrupts, nodding. "Okay, but what if--"

"Christ, you're kidding me." Castiel turns to see Dean watching them and wonders how long he's been listening. "This is a party. Where we're supposed to be _having fun_. Heard of it?"

"I'm having fun," Alicia answers defensively. "There are lots of kinds of fun. Some of us were talking about Ichabod's defenses during dinner with the patrol from the other towns who are here, working out how we'd handle this kind of group if there was an attack tonight. I'm guessing if we got enough warning, blocking off the street would work, but Syracuse, Main and Second are the only ones with limited entry and exit points with their alleys blocked. Here, though--" she waves around them, "--not nearly that simple."

"Huh." Dean looks between them for a moment, then at the crowd around them. "Yeah, you're right. We haven't done anything like this, and Cas's never even been to a big party before. Cas, how long will it take you to work a couple of options for a sitch like this?"

"What?" He looks between their expectant faces, wondering what he's missing. 

"We'll get back to you," Dean tells Alicia, who half-turns at the sound of her name being called. Assured of her distraction, Castiel stares at Dean, who looks back with unconvincing bewilderment. "What? We're gonna protect people, we gotta figure this shit out."

"I wasn't taught this." Everything he knows came from others, taught to him to pass on to new hunters. He wonders vaguely if he should have already explained what his education had entailed, but Dean's expression flickers briefly, something looking back at him that he can't interpret. 

"Neither was I," Dean points out. "Looks like we'll have to work it out ourselves. I'll give you a week, okay?"

"I have no idea how to do that."

"Then what the hell were you doing with Alicia just now?" Looking annoyed, Dean gestures in an arc around them. "Cas, I get it, you learned everything hunters would teach you, and great, you taught 'em here everything you knew. That's just the beginning, though. This is where you gotta learn shit maybe no one knows yet, and teach 'em how to do that, too."

"Dean, I was a foot soldier in the Host, which made me fit to learn to instruct hunters." At least, there was a certain amount of crossover, or he could pretend there was. "Not--"

"You're a hunter," Dean says flatly. "That's what you made yourself, and you're fit to do damn well anything you want to. Now how long?"

Castiel opens his mouth to answer--he doesn't know how to do that or how to even learn it--but the words drain away unspoken, others spilling out in their place. "I may need more than a week."

Dean grins at him and picks up his discarded cup. "How about two?"

"Cathy," Alicia says softly, and Castiel realizes she's gone still, cup forgotten in one hand. Following her gaze, Castiel sees a thin figure in an oversized coat hovering near the edge of the growing crowd, seemingly unaware of those around her. Even from here, he recognizes the fixed blankness in her eyes as she stares at the flames and thinks he knows what she's seeing right now. "Where the hell are…."

With a muffled curse, Alicia jumps to her feet as the woman begins to sway. As quickly and easily as another person crosses open ground, Alicia navigates the crowd, reaching the woman and steadying her just before her knees begin to buckle.

"Cathy," Dean murmurs. "Where have I heard--" He cuts himself off, blowing out a breath. "She lost her kid during the attack. How old--"

"Del," he answers. "She was two weeks old." Tomorrow, she would have been a month old, he realizes, watching Alicia wrap an arm around Cathy's slumped shoulders, nodding encouragingly as two other people hastily join them--her housemates, he assumes, who from their expressions didn't expect her reaction to seeing the bonfire.

Alicia says something to Cathy, waiting for her nod, before she and Cathy follow the other two toward another group nearby, settling with Cathy on the blankets. 

"I forgot," Dean says abruptly, and Castiel turns to see him frowning at the fire as he takes another drink. "Alicia was here after the attack, wasn't she?"

"I sent her to assist Dolores." Her report--much like all of those who came to Ichabod for those two days--was stripped to essentials, a brief businesslike outline of her duties and observations, unlike Alicia's usual verbosity. Not entirely surprising: as an EMT who'd acted as Darryl's assistant and nurse, she'd been assigned to Dolores to help with the victims, and even the worst missions never returned with that many injuries.

"Did she…." Dean hesitates, and Castiel knows he's mentally reviewing every report, the familiar euphemisms that softened the starkness of what Chitaqua's soldiers witnessed of Ichabod's loss. "Cas, help me out here."

"It wasn't in her report." Amanda would have mentioned if she'd seen Alicia in the isolation rooms, which only means she didn't see her. If there was a need for volunteers to assist those in isolation, Alicia would have volunteered without a second thought. There were many in those rooms that would need mercy, and Alicia wouldn't need oversight, as Amanda did, to administer the shots. "She might have forgotten to mention that."

"Or didn't want to talk about it." Dean finishes his drink in a gulp and immediately refills the cup with a grim expression. "Or even think about it."

Castiel takes the cup and finishes half; that sounds depressingly relevant now that he has context. "Her team--"

"I think we both know who got in before they noticed something was wrong," Dean says in disgust, taking back the cup. "He's _that_ kind of guy, no surprise there." After a moment, he grimaces. "Might not have helped. She's the _other_ kind of talker. Amanda would have said something if she knew--who else…."

"Dolores," Castiel says, watching Alicia passing Cathy a cup and nodding encouragingly as she takes a sip, and tries to remember who else would know. "I'll speak to her tomorrow, and to Karl, her second; he was in charge of the isolation rooms while Dolores worked on the other patients."

"Good idea." Dean plays with the cup for a moment before cocking his head. "So, you wanna hang out here or check out what else everyone's doing tonight?"

* * *

Dean's restlessness increases as midnight drifts closer, and Castiel obediently follows him on a circuit of Fourth, now bustling with activity. They pause briefly here and there, long enough for Dean to smile, wave at someone he recognizes, engage in a snatch of conversation with a vendor while sampling a drink or survey a tray of goods and comment on the quality to the owners before they move on again. It's fascinating in a completely different way than he expected when he came here tonight, but the reason for the difference is elusive.

Beneath brightly-colored canopies, the vendors offer a wide variety of goods, some he's certain was never available to the general population outside some very specialized stores (or, on occasion, garage sales). 

The more mundane merchandise on offer includes alcohol, the equipment to make alcohol, firearms (of course) and other types of weapons as well as ammunition, bags of snack foods (dried fruit and nuts: Dean purchases two), leather goods (he memorizes the name of the vendor), metalwork and jewelry (Dean immediately writes down their names and specialties), clothing, and a stunning variety of homespun fabrics of various types and colors with the option to have it turned into clothing made to order.

The more specialized goods include charms of all types, pre-packaged ingredients for DIY spellcasting (an interesting idea; everything you need in neatly labeled baggies), specialized equipment for the working witch or practitioner, various useful herbs for purposes both mystical and mundane, and everything in between. As Dean engages with a couple who seem to specialize in socks (he wonders what they might know about dryer elves), Castiel finds himself fascinated with a booth devoted to candles.

It's aweing purely on a visual level: portable shelves line all three sides of the booth and are filled with everything from tea candles small enough to fit inside a coffee cup to a set the size of truncated pillars, some with complicated etching in the wax, others smooth and glossy as if polished, and in every color in the rainbow.

"Anything specific?" a voice asks, sounding amused, and Castiel realizes he wandered much closer than he intended, attracted by the sense of muted purpose despite nothing on display showing anything but the most mundane of properties. Looking up, he sees the vendor, an African American woman in her late thirties, smiling at him. "Wendy, Noak," she adds, extending a hand, and startled, he stares at warily before tentatively shaking it, relieved there's no sigh of incipient hysteria.

"Castiel of Chitaqua," he answers politely, and her eyebrows rise curiously.

"Nice to meet you." She doesn't let go immediately, however, dark fingers firm as the amber eyes scan him thoughtfully. "Specialty?"

That's what he thought. "Yes."

"Thought so." Bending down, she removes a box from under the counter. A glimpse inside shows mounds of tissue-wrapped objects and the sense of power increases. Seeing his reaction, she looks pleased. "I don't keep everything out on the tables. Practitioner?"

"All of my existence," he agrees as she unwraps several, setting them between them for his perusal. Picking up one of the more esoteric models the size of his palm, colored in graduated shades of blue, he turns it in his hand, following the subtle sense of power tucked into each complex curve and identifying each individual property: patience, calm, serenity, and focus infusions on an earthy base, scented with mint. "This is interesting."

"I have a few practicing witches--other than Teresa--who don't have time to do everything themselves and so buy from me," she says, leaning an elbow on the counter. "Especially these days: outsourcing is where it's at."

"Not everyone has the natural talent for this kind of work." Any human can, with study, learn to use herbs for basic charms and spellwork, but very few can ever learn to sense their properties, much less isolate, condense, and infuse them into an object like this without degradation, especially in combination without losing individuality. "What did you study during your apprenticeship and where? I didn't think anyone still practiced the art of infusions at this level. At least, not in this country."

"Idaho, and the bare bones basics," she answers self-deprecatingly, long, beaded braids glinting in the Christmas lights strung across her booth. "Never got farther than basic charms, barely any active craft, but I did have some calling for herbal potions, though nothing special. Total hedgewitch. My teacher almost gave up until I started working with wax and stumbled across something I actually had a talent for. Limited field, but when you're the only one in it, that helps."

"Infusions may be passive, but they're still a very difficult craft to master and very few ever reach this level of skill." Regretfully, he sets the small candle back on the counter; the sense of calm and serenity are very pleasant, and he can imagine how it would feel when burned (not to mention the very pleasant scent). "Do you have a product list available? Charmed and mundane: clarity, focus, patience, inspiration, serenity, endurance, energy, and lemon, if possible. Something citrus, at any rate. I'm tired of the smell of bleach when cleaning the kitchen."

"I can make a list," she answers promptly. "I'll be here until the end of the week; my sister Lourdes is Noak's mayor, so there's the meeting plus afterparty. We're on southeast Second, Building C: electricity, toilets and a working kitchen, kind of. For when you make candles for Teresa of Ichabod, there are perks much better than you get for just being a mayor. Where do you want me to send it?"

"Third Street, northwestern corner. Or Alison and Teresa's building," he says, startled when she places the candle back in his hand and closes his fingers over it. "I don't have anything right now to pay for it."

"Bread on the water." She grins at him. "I also take commissions, but lead time is about two weeks for delivery to Ichabod." She gives him a thoughtful look. "I'm also known for my experimental work. I can't guarantee success, but that's the only time I charge."

"I'll keep that in mind." From the corner of his eye, he sees Dean waiting patiently. "I'll be in touch, probably after the meeting." Taking the box she finds under the counter, he carefully wraps the candle in paper and places it within before tucking it carefully into an internal pocket of his coat. "Thank you."

"Looking forward to hearing from you," she says sincerely, and joining Dean, he realizes he's rather looking forward to it as well. 

Amanda tracks them down just after eleven--how, Castiel isn't entirely certain--looking amused as Dean charms another bottle of currant wine from one of the nearby vendors of alcoholic beverages before giving a brief report: all is well, and so far, nothing alarming from the still-arriving people.

Dean listens, but for some reason seems distracted, eyes flickering impatiently to the passing people with a faint frown, but halfway through Amanda's commentary on Laura's endless soliloquies at the loss of her potential orgasms ("She. Won't. Shut. Up. Can we send her on a special assignment? To anywhere not here?"), Dean abruptly straightens, yelling "Hey, wait!" as he eases between two of the vendors and back into the street. 

Turning, Castiel watches his progress toward a small group of people he recognizes as members of Ichabod's patrol, stopping as a statuesque blonde turns around with a slow, pleased smile that matches the one that Dean gives her. Together, they move slightly to the side and immediately fall into what appears to be an utterly fascinating conversation.

"…Cas?"

He jerks his attention back to Amanda. "That's fine, yes. Is there anything else?"

"Nope, we're good." Leaning back against one of the support posts that once held a walkway roof, she crosses her arms. "I'll be staying at Dina's tonight after poker hijinks if you need to find me, and you know you're not being subtle here, right? Even a little."

He closes his eyes, wondering if it's possible he may actually miss when people avoided him unless they wanted to have sex or required drugs.

"The blonde's Vanessa, by the way," she continues, despite the fact he's certain he didn't ask and has no reason to care. "Thirty-one, boyfriend died a year and a half ago, no kids but wants them, got moved to patrol when Haruhi was recruited, still on a learning curve to do the job. She's not too bad," she adds thoughtfully as Dean's burst of laughter drags his attention back to the street, where Vanessa is beaming under the influence of Dean's undiluted attention. "Want me to take her out? I can make it look like an accident, no problem."

He jerks his gaze to Amanda, who looks back innocently.

"Friends," she drawls, "help you move bodies. Family gets rid of the bodies for you."

He considers family as he understands it: his brainwashed, tortured, hunted, and tried to kill him, made him participate in horrific game shows, attempted to tempt him to Lucifer's side, and also had sex with Dean while Dean was his charge in the back of the Impala in plain view of anyone with eyes, and he won't pretend not to know exactly who seduced whom that day. 

Dean may have been right about the upgrade.

"I appreciate the thought," he says, ruthlessly suppressing the inappropriate quiver in his voice. "I can handle rivals for Dean's affection on my own, however."

"If you're sure." She sighs, pushing off the post and coming up beside him. "You know, I could just take the rest of the night instead of handing off to Kamal at midnight."

"I thought you were going to Dina's for poker and flirting with Laylah and her girlfriend?"

"Not until two, and anyway, Vera said something about checking out the official poker den, don't want her to--you know, go alone." She makes a face and sighs. "Or go not alone with anyone but me, so picking her up from admin at midnight, and God help anyone who gets in my way."

"Have you thought about--"

"Yeah," she interrupts moodily. "Take that as answer to anything you could add there."

"--telling her you won a copy of hippofucker?" he finishes, watching Dean gesticulate and the blonde woman laugh far too enthusiastically with an unnatural number of visible teeth. Annoyed with himself, he turns to face a startled-looking Amanda. "Vera will very likely volunteer to act as courier between Chitaqua and Ichabod for the next few weeks so she can become more familiar with the town as well as convey information and letters and that will require overnight visits. You could offer to read it to her in the evenings."

"We--have a courier?" she falters.

"We could," he says thoughtfully. "And now we do: power is useful for so many things."

A hand unexpectedly clamps down on his shoulder as Dean pokes his head between them, flushed and still grinning as if his conversation with Vanessa was the highlight of the evening's entertainment. "You done yet?" Castiel nods. "Awesome. Let's go."

He resists Dean's pull long enough to add, "Also, Vera can waltz, polka, tango, and samba."

Her mouth drops open. "What?"

"Friends help you try to win," he tells her over his shoulder as Dean (now snickering) tugs him away. "Family cheats to make sure you do."

* * *

Dean is maddeningly silent as they turn at the end of the street and unexpectedly starts toward the north. As they pass Fifth, Castiel notes that lights are already being added by one of Tony's crews in anticipation of future need, but for reasons that pass understanding, Dean doesn't stop until they reach Sixth.

"Okay, now where…." Dean trails off, eyes traveling upward to scan the buildings despite the darkness, and Castiel starts to ask what he's looking for before he makes a satisfied sound, hand tightening on Castiel's arm. "There we go. No questions, now come on."

Castiel manages to control himself for most of the block, not wondering what Dean seemed to find so interesting about his conversation with Vanessa, feeling no desire whatsoever to ask about it, and uninterested in why Dean seems to feel no particular desire to share what was so amusing that he laughed for a total of two minutes (accumulative). As they reach the next block, the hand around his arm slides to his wrist, tugging him onto the remains of the sidewalk, pace slowing significantly until they stops before one of the boarded-over doors. 

Stepping back, Dean glances at the markings by the doorway--yellow-pink, outwardly structurally stable, less so within--before taking out a flashlight and pointing it at the boarded-over door. "Hey, do something about that, would you?"

He seriously considers telling Dean that it's blocked for a very good reason, then wonders why on earth he even wants to bother. It only takes a few seconds to pull the boards free of the frame, tossing them aside, and ignoring Dean's scowl, opens the door to check just inside for any dangers (collapse of upper floors, lack of floor altogether) before stepping back to let Dean enter and shutting the door behind them.

The bare wooden floor isn't in the best condition, every crack and grumble beneath their feet making him wonder nervously about the condition of any potential basement before his entire attention is on the stretch of stairs ascending into darkness, which don't become any more promising when illuminated by Dean's flashlight.

He stops, ignoring the increasingly determined tugs. "No."

"They're fine, Van double checked to be sure I read the damage reports right," Dean answers soothingly, leaving Castiel wondering blankly why on earth Dean would be reading random damage reports. "Now come on." 

Dean's last pull is successful purely from his own curiosity regarding the casual use of 'Van'. By the time they've creaked their way halfway to the second floor, he's involved with not wondering when and how Dean met Vanessa, and how long they've known each other; the easy use of 'Van' seems to indicate a great deal of familiarity, however, especially if she's doing favors for him. He certainly never mentioned her before, which seems rather--

Castiel thinks, incredulous: what is _wrong_ with me?

"Cas?"

"I thought she was a member of patrol, not city services." Dean blinks at him, eyebrows drawing together in confusion, and he belatedly realizes that context is both lacking and impossible to explain (even if he wanted to, which he doesn't). "Vanessa. Van, rather, which I assume is short for Vanessa. I could be mistaken."

"She used to be city before we got Haruhi," Dean answers distractedly as they reach the third floor. "She was helping Tony's crew check the buildings earlier on Fifth and she offered to run over here and see if this one had been re-marked since the last time they did a survey." He leads them around the splintered wood that when Castiel looks down surrounds a hole showing a shadowy portion of the floor below them. "I asked--hold up, a missing step coming up, just need to--" and Castiel jerks free of Dean just long enough to clamp a hand around his wrist as he starts to jump over the shattered remains of a significant amount of the next two stairs.

"How many more floors?"

"Five." Dean cocks his head, like he can't imagine why that's relevant. "Why?"

"You realize I can't actually fly anymore?" he asks, joining Dean on the step before jumping with him to the next and ignoring the low, warning groan of the wood on their landing with an effort. "If you fall, so will I, and both of us will be subject to the law of gravity."

Dean glances down at his captive wrist and raises an eyebrow. 

"It was just a reminder," he says, scanning the stairs ahead of them for any more unfortunate structural weaknesses before continuing their ascent. "Let's go."

* * *

To Castiel's relief, the remaining stairs are still more or less undamaged, though every creak is in stereo and echoes through the entire building. Dean takes the lead once they reach the top floor, hunting through a narrow hall and two alarmingly dilapidated rooms before he stops short, turning the flashlight up at the ceiling, where Castiel sees a square access panel. Tucking the flashlight between his teeth, Dean jerks his head significantly before lacing his fingers together, which Castiel assumes means that it's his job to get it open.

The rusted catch on the access to the roof breaks with unsurprising ease, and pulling himself up, he scans the flat roof for any potential for instantly falling to their deaths. Other than a small building of unknown purpose (air conditioner or heaters, perhaps?), there's no sign of damage, and the building itself is fully intact, though in desperate need of repair and perhaps a coat or two of paint.

"Well?" Dean asks impatiently from below him. Climbing out, he rests his weight on the balls of his feet, listening for any sign of cracking or breaking, then slowly straightens, taking a careful step, then another. "You gonna help me--fuck it," drifts toward him, and Castiel hears a thump as Dean jumps, fingers clamped around the edge of the access hole. 

Coming back, Castiel crouches to peer down at Dean hanging almost four feet from the floor below, boots dangling mid-air, a smile stretching across his face as Dean's accusing stare reminds him of the last time he found him hanging from a roof. At least this time, he's wearing shoes.

"I don't think," he says thoughtfully, "that tonight is a nice night for a broken leg."

The green eyes narrow at him, muscles tensing in his forearms as if he'll try and pull himself up by sheer will, and biting back another grin, Castiel shifts his balance and reaches down, pulling Dean effortlessly to the roof. 

He waits patiently as Dean makes an elaborate show of straightening his coat before asking, "So what are we doing here?"

Dean looks around before abruptly turning Castiel in place and clamping a hand over his eyes. "Trust me, right?" he murmurs against Castiel's ear, chest suddenly pressed against his back, his other hand resting lightly against his hip under his coat as he turns him. "Ten steps straight ahead, then stop."

The gentle nudge against his back reminds him to move, and he counts each step, coming to a stop obediently when the hand on his hip tightens warningly, something solid brushing against his knees. "Okay, open your eyes."

When he does, he's standing inches from the three foot high ledge surrounding the edge of the roof.

"Come on," Dean says, bracing a hand on the ledge and boosting himself onto the concrete, finding his balance effortlessly before extending a hand. Startled, he take Dean's hand, joining him on the two foot wide ledge, and grinning, Dean cocks his head. "What do you think?"

Abruptly, Castiel realizes he's over a hundred feet above the earth and stills, breath trapped in his throat. Before him stretches eastern Ichabod and its fields of winter crops; beyond that are miles of uncultivated land broken by clumps of winter-bare trees and dips of greater darkness that might be lakes in the distance. Turning in a slow circle, he takes in the stretch of Creation in all its endless variation sleeping beneath a blanket of winter snow around them, the wind smelling of cold and a still-living world.

"It's beautiful," he breathes.

"So what do you get for the guy who doesn't want anything?" Dean murmurs, shoulder pressing against his own, vividly warm and alive. "This is the highest point in town except the old water tower, but ladder's rusted to hell in some spots, didn't want to risk it. I asked Alison about it when we were working out the details for tonight, and she found the survey and maps for me and said it was in the yellows, which I guess means it won't collapse or anything." He lets out a quiet laugh. "I gotta check this out during the day; I'm guessing from the look on your face, it's pretty awesome."

Tearing his gaze from a tiny copse of trees surrounding a frozen pond like a pool of ink, he glances at Dean in surprise. "You didn't come up here already?"

"Dude, it was your Christmas present; I wanted you to see it first." The satisfied grin changes as he looks around them. "Van said--there they are." Jumping down, he goes several feet away and bends down, retrieving a pile of folded blankets from the shadows and from somewhere in the depths of his coat he produces a bottle that Castiel recognizes as the currant wine that he acquired earlier. "Drinking on the roof. See any drawbacks to this plan?"

"No," he answers, unable to look away from that brilliant smile. "None at all."

* * *

Dean passes him the half-empty bottle before slumping back against the ledge. "How long until midnight?"

"Twenty minutes," he answers, demonstrating another almost useless ability retained; provided he's fully conscious and (mostly) in his right mind, he can always tell the relative time according to a given location's absolute position within spacetime. It's ridiculously simple; using the moment the universe came into being after the creation of Time and accounting for the varying rate of speed of passage in universal spacetime since then to find the relative time, he simply translates that to local (earth), calculates the earth's position in its revolution around the sun and its current position in its (very roughly) twenty-four hour rotation, graft the results onto time zones as established using the Greenwich standard, and gets the approximate time in Ichabod, Kansas within four decimal places.

( _Almost_ useless, but not quite: Dean's inordinately impressed by this particular ability, so it's been upgraded in his personal rating system. Anything that gives Dean so much enjoyment must have some value, though in all honesty he has yet to think of any other circumstance that knowing the exact number of seconds since Time began would be at all useful. Unless Walter wants to build a primitive FTL drive, of course, then yes, the equation might be of some use, though navigating foldspace with the fifth-generation model would require some adjustments and a fairly radical approach to interpreting special relativity. Perhaps he should ask Tony about that; he has stated before that Walter likes long-term projects and this would definitely qualify.)

"Awesome," Dean says in satisfaction. "So could be wrong, but I think it's resolution time."

"Trade for a great deal more of this," Castiel answers, studying the anonymous brown bottle of currant wine before taking another drink. The two blankets folded beneath them make a very adequate cushion and excellent insulation against the cold concrete of the roof, and with their coats behind them, cushioning them from the unforgiving surface of the ledge, they share the other blankets to maximize heat retention. He's become an expert at maximizing heat retention, as even with Dean's weather stripping efforts, the cabin is cold, and leaving the electric heating units on all night is to be avoided at all costs. As he explained to Dean, the fire hazard is inarguable, so they must make due with blankets and proximity to assure adequate warmth. Hyperaware of the warm stretch of Dean's body against his side, he frantically tries to recall what they were talking about. "And discover where Alison gets her supply of coffee."

Dean nods as he takes the bottle back, but the green eyes are distant. Castiel glances toward the open access to the floor below and wonders if perhaps the request for the current time had a specific purpose. Reluctantly, he starts to straighten. "If we leave now, barring the potential collapse of the stairs, we should be able to return to the others before--"

Dean's arm snaps out across his chest, stopping him short. "Where," he asks, "do you think you're going?"

"Nowhere, obviously." Dean nods in satisfaction, withdrawing his arm as Castiel settles back again, as if by accident pressing his knee against Dean's and is rewarded with Dean's hand dropping to rest on it beneath the blanket. Satisfied, he reflects that successful tactical exercises are not limited to the battlefield. "Tomorrow, we'll come back here during daylight so you can enjoy the view as well."

"I'd like that. I never asked--what's it like anyway?" Dean asks suddenly. "Without light, I mean, seeing this?"

"Much like it is during the day, but without color." Dean raises his eyebrows in a silent request for elaboration. "In perfect dark, I wouldn’t be able to see any better than you do, but even now, there's enough light to assure adequate contrast to identify shapes in graduated shades of monochrome. So it's the equivalent of a very high-resolution black and white photograph, if you need a reference."

"Why no color?"

"The human eye can't distinguish color below a certain threshold of available light, and I'm still restricted by that." Since Dean came, he's spent far less time thinking of all his limitations in this form and more about what he can still do--for Dean, at his request, what he needs--but that doesn't mean he can explain it. He can try, though. "The physical limitations of my eye decides the amount and quality of the data provided to my visual cortex, which is also limited in what it can interpret from that, and there's always degradation. My true form doesn't have those kinds of limitations, however; it receives, processes, interprets, and records all the data available from the eye, and there's no organic degradation." He spares a quick look at Dean, who nods, waving the bottle for him to continue. "On a guess, my true form integrated with my nervous system well enough that it's receiving the data from the eye first, correcting it as much as possible from its own data, and then giving it to the visual cortex to deal with."

Dean takes a drink from the bottle before tapping it against his knee thoughtfully. "Your true form is acting like Photoshop?"

"Or Adobe Premiere," he agrees. "Same principles. The lack of color is due to the limitations of the data received from the eye in the first place. I suppose there's simply not enough color references to reliably upgrade, so it won't bother, but as long as there's enough light for any amount of contrast, it can correct that, though I haven't tested the exact amount."

"So you can see in the dark--pretty useful." Dean glances out at the landscape again before easing from his slump against the ledge, turning in place to give him the full benefit of his undivided attention (his hand, however, remains where it is, and all is well with the world indeed). "So what do you think of your first New Year's party? That wasn't also an orgy, I mean."

"Interesting." While his previous New Years' were indeed spent in sexual congress, it wasn't exactly in celebration of the date, so he can probably consider this his actual first. "Human customs are fascinating when observing from a more immediate perspective--" Dean coughs significantly in what sounds like 'bullshit'. Looping an arm around his knees, Castiel smiles at him. "Fun. That was the answer you were looking for, I assume?"

"Only if it's true." 

He remembers Vera earlier in the evening, asking him about the celebrations he attended at Alpha, before coming to Chitaqua. Dean attended them, of course, and would often persuade or order Castiel to accompany him, but as Dean was usually quickly distracted by the attractions of potential sexual partners or his friends among the other hunters, there rarely if ever was any reason to linger after Dean's attention wandered. At the time, he was relieved that Dean never questioned him later on where he was or why he left; in time, however, he came to realize that Dean probably never noticed his absence.

Human gatherings were social events, and everyone has species in common if nothing else. While Castiel would occasionally spend time observing their interactions with each other, it quickly become a source of vague, unformed discomfort that even to himself he was unable to articulate. Far more practical to concentrate on fulfilling his purpose, what Dean meant him to do, than concern himself with what was beyond his understanding. Mortality didn't change that in any meaningful way other than that which involved sexual congress. 

Now, however--he still isn't human, and he still lacks most of the most fundamental experiences that humanity shares, but since the Insert Winter Holiday You Celebrate at Chitaqua, he's become aware of something's changed. Dean's presence is part of it, of course; he's very personally motivated to retain his company and models his behavior to that end, but it's not an effort that he has to think about every minute, and the penalty for a mistake…Dean never seems to indicate any dissatisfaction in anything he says or does, in any case.

It was easy, he thinks, startled. 

The mandatory social requirements, both at the party in Chitaqua and here, were far easier to fulfill than he expected, and not only because conversation often revolves around things he knows: fighting the supernatural, weaponry, religious iconography, mythical events, ritual magic, and the uses of various types of wards. Sometimes the discussions were about food--which he doesn't even like, though discussion of various desserts are becoming far more interesting than they used to be--adequate insulation, water purification, animal husbandry, the best times to plant wheat and corn, projected yields from the next harvest, and the interpersonal relationships of people that sometimes he not only knew but has had sexual relations with at least once. 

It might also be, he thinks in surprise, that he wants to be here, and other people seem to want that, too.

"It is," he answers slowly and is rewarded with Dean's satisfied smile. "How long do these generally last?"

"It's barely started," Dean says enthusiastically. "We're still in the getting to know you phase, where everyone's eaten and drunk enough to feel comfortable talking to strangers and make friends with everyone else and being sober for midnight toasts and whatever. After midnight when the kids are put to bed, it'll be strip poker--hell, strip any-game they can use for an excuse--random acts of public affection anywhere there's shitty lighting, and drunken hookups like it's a goddamn sacrament."

"So not entirely unlike my previous experiences with New Years'." Dean seesaws the bottle. "Or from the bars I used to patronize when we needed information."

"Christ, all you know about people comes from Chitaqua, hunters, and bars. Which come to think," he concedes, "is pretty much mine, too. Came and went, no time for introductions, much less hanging out. Most of the time, even the people we helped couldn’t have picked me and Sam out of a crowd ten minutes later. Not that they had any reason to," he adds more quietly. "It was just a job, save a few people, helping out where we could."

"And now everyone who sees you knows that you're what hunts the monsters that hunt them." Dean's mouth quirks acknowledgement; he's a hunter, his victories counted in people saved and defeat in those lost. Saving the world he may believe is beyond his capabilities, but those here tonight, the residents of Ichabod, the members of Chitaqua, that's very different; they're people he knows, and he knows he can save them.

"Later tonight, you're gonna show me your new and improved poker game," Dean says, breaking into his thoughts. "With your poker face, we can clean out everyone. That's a lot of future brownies."

"Friends help you move bodies," he hears himself say into the comfortable silence for some reason. "Family gets rid of the bodies for you." Dean blinks at him, bottle frozen half-way to his mouth. "Something Amanda said. After she offered to kill Vanessa--Van, rather--for the sake of our continued domestic harmony."

Dean stares at him for a long moment, face blank, before he bursts into laughter. Reaching for the wine before Dean drops it, Castiel takes a drink. "I declined, of course. I can handle interlopers myself."

"Ritual combat, public sex, I remember," Dean says breathlessly, squeezing his knee before snatching the bottle from his hand and composing himself enough to take a long drink before handing it back. Wiping his mouth, he stifles another burst of hilarity when he looks at Castiel before saying, voice trembling, "You know Amanda's the one who introduced me to Van last time I was here? And sent the blankets with her earlier?" Snickering, he takes a deep breath, shaking his head. "I'm gonna kick her ass."

"Oh." He considers that as he takes another drink before passing it back to Dean, cold fingers brushing his when he takes the bottle. "Then--"

"Wait," Dean says suddenly. "When did she--oh, when I was talking to Van earlier? Huh." He takes another drink. "Didn't think you noticed."

Castiel freezes in his reach for the bottle. "Didn't think that I noticed you abruptly abandon us without explanation at the sight of a very attractive blonde woman with whom you conversed for eight minutes and twenty-three seconds, two minutes of which you spent laughing?" Dean's eyes widen and it occurs to him he did indeed say that out loud. Grabbing the bottle, he takes a drink in the hope that might--do something (rewind time, but no, it doesn't). "From what I understand, it's rude to--do that."

Bracing an elbow on his knee, Dean rests his chin on one hand and gives him his full and undivided attention. "Rude."

"Boorish," he says challengingly. "Churlish. Discourteous. Impolite. Inconsiderate. Loutish. Uncouth."

"Dude, you're slipping," Dean observes, absently stroking Castiel's knee in a way that's the opposite of soothing, fingers just approaching his inner thigh before retreating. "Only seven: I heard you can get to fifty without even trying."

"Are you enjoying yourself?" he asks in annoyance, but not enough to so much as shift his current position.

"German, starts with 's', give me a second," Dean says, then brightens. "Got it. Schadenfreude."

"I don't see--"

"Theodore," Dean interrupts, cocking his head, and yes, that. "So?"

That's unexpected. "Why? I've had sex with many people--"

"And that was the first time you ever had a problem admitting it." Dean shrugs, almost casually. "Just curious."

Oh. "Nothing terrible--"

"That much I kind of figured," Dean interrupts, and _oh_. Schadenfreude.

"And nothing particularly...." There's a lesson in this, he suspects, but what he has no idea. "He was my first. Sex partner." 

For some reason, that makes Dean tense, though his expression remains the same. "And he left?"

"That would be the reason," he explains. "Why I seduced him, I mean. Or he seduced me. Though I suppose it could be considered a mutual endeavor."

Dean frowns. "What?"

Castiel sighs, playing with the bottle absently. "Despite what you might think, finding a sex partner when you don't know how to do that isn't easy," he starts. "Especially when over two-thirds of the potential candidates are terrified of you, you actively dislike seven-tenths of them, and that's only the ones you know well enough to dislike. And sexuality…." He really has no words for that.

Dean expression melts into sympathy, which he supposes could--somewhere--be considered an improvement. "Okay, that must have sucked."

"Theodore fulfilled my minimal requirements: living, breathing, willing, and planning to leave, in case experimentation ended in disaster," he continues and sees Dean's mouth twitch. "Finding out the willing part was simply good luck; before I could consider how to approach him--which admittedly could have taken years--he came to my cabin one evening. Apparently he'd heard me mention alcohol production and thought I'd be interested in exploring methodology, so wanted offer his knowledge for my edification."

"Not bad," Dean admits. "Gotta give him props for that one."

"As the only mention I'd made regarding alcohol production was mourning the lack of whiskey in our lives, I'd say so." Dean tips his head in amused agreement. "He ended up staying two weeks longer than he planned, taught me a great deal about how to make a staggering variety of alcoholic beverages, and it goes without saying, a great deal about sex."

"Stayed an extra two weeks, huh?" Dean's grin is becoming less convincing. "What, trying to convince you to run off with him?"

"Nothing like that," he replies. "That was the final date before formal training began, and he didn't want to join the militia but anticipated after leaving that regular sex would be somewhat rare in his life. He was a pleasant companion, and as I was still--uncertain with my body, even with Dean drilling me--he was perfectly willing to be the guinea pig, as he put it." He hesitates. "I also told him that there were rumors that there were other places--in the South--that he might find more palatable, and how he might find them."

"You told him about Alpha?" 

"Not specifically," he admits. "But if he followed my instructions, it would take a concerted effort on his part to miss finding it. I don't know if he went there, if that's your next question. Gloria never mentioned anyone from Chitaqua showing up there, so I assume not."

Dean is quiet for a long time. "Did you want him to stay?"

"No. It never occurred to me to want him to." He wonders how to explain something he's not sure how to explain to himself. "It was--I was different then, I suppose. Training took most of my attention, and Bree soon after indicated interest in guiding my education as it pertained to women. Until today, I hadn't thought about him since he left."

"Good memory, though," Dean says, smiling at him. "I was hoping you had a few more of those in Chitaqua."

"It is, yes." He tilts his head. "I'd like you to introduce me to Van at the next opportunity."

Dean nods in surprise. "Sure, but I'm pretty sure she knows who you are."

"As your partner."

"She probably knows--"

"I'd prefer there be no ambiguity whatsoever," he interrupts. "Where is she now, do you think?"

Dean closes his eyes, laughing quietly. "Fine, I deserved that. Though right now--hey, how long until midnight?"

"Three minutes," he says, deciding the introduction can wait (not for long, however). "Are there any other New Year's traditions I should be aware of?"

Dean's grin returns at its full, baffling power. "We got food, check," he says, counting them off on his fingers, "drinking, check, dancing, check--me anyway--" he smirks before continuing, "--hanging out with people you know, check, sitting around a fire--no s'mores, but can't have everything--check, resolutions--"

"You didn't told me yours."

He makes a face. "Save the world?"

"Are resolutions usually expressed in the form of a question?"

"Recruit an army, join up with Alpha, save the world, have a sandwich and a milkshake, and sleep for a week," he says challengingly. "More immediately, get the water filter working, finish the mess, add a new room to the cabin, find out where the hell to get more cocoa, get laid…wait, you hear that?"

Castiel is still hearing 'get laid' on repeat when the dull roar he'd been subliminally aware of resolves into the sound of voices; it takes another few moments to realize that that they're counting.

_Forty-nine, forty-eight, forty-seven--_

"Forty-six," he says with them, Dean nodding encouragement. "What are they--"

"Counting down to the new year," Dean answers. "Forty-two, forty-one, forty, thirty-nine--dude, it's a countdown. You're supposed to _count_. Thirty-five, thirty-four…"

"Thirty-three," Castiel says obediently. "Thirty-two, thirty-one, thirty."

 _Twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven…_ Now that he's listening, he wonders how he missed it before, a sound like thunder rolling across a clear sky, thousands of people gathered in celebration. _…twenty-three, twenty-two…_ Twenty-fourteen is seconds from ending, but the world hasn't, not yet. _Twenty, nineteen, eighteen…._

"It's not over," he whispers. "We survived."

"Yeah, we did," Dean agrees, resting an arm around his shoulders. "Fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten. One more resolution: we're going to keep doing it. Seven. Six." The voices grown even louder, but all he can hear is Dean. "Five. Four. Three."

"Two. One," he breathes with Dean as 2014 ends and 2015 begins, the new year stretching out before them, glittering with possibility, a blank page waiting for ink and the words they'll write to define it. Impossibly, the roar explodes into a cataclysm: screaming and laughter and shouting, an undifferentiated mass of sound that's exultation incarnate: _We survived. We're going to keep doing it._

"We missed one," he hears Dean murmur, close enough that he can feel the warmth of his breath against his cheek. Turning his head, he stares into green eyes filled with light incandescent, cold fingers curving to cup his jaw. Castiel closes his eyes as Dean kisses him, losing himself in the taste of his mouth, the individual touch of each finger against his cheek, the first moments of the first day of a new year in a still-living world. 

"Happy New Year," Dean breathes against his lips. "Remember how this works. Last resolution: we're gonna have a lot more of them, so pay attention."

* * *

_\--Day 151--_

As he predicted, the serious gambling starts almost as soon as the midnight toasts are over, when everyone with better things to do (read: potentially get laid) wanders off to start making a serious effort in that direction, feeling the New Year high and ready to start it off making questionable decisions in a public setting. Also as predicted, any location with shitty lighting and adequate space is now grand central station to indulge those decisions made with alcoholic assistance, or at least the semi-plausible excuse of it. 

Tradition, he told Cas, and as it turns out, he's a big fan of tradition; at this particular moment, in this particular goddamn alley, it just might be his favorite thing.

"Told you," he murmurs against Cas's lips as he pulls back dizzily to get a full breath, laughter bubbling up from somewhere deep in his chest. The slight difference in their heights is new and weirdly fascinating; he barely has to lean at all, and Cas is _right there_ , mouth reddened and swollen, pale cheeks splashed with hot color. Cas makes an annoyed sound, and Dean presses a kiss against the corner of his mouth to quiet him, stroking his thumb over one flushed cheekbone before licking a slow line over his jaw, enjoying the prickling roughness against his tongue. Tilting Cas's head, he traces the shell of his ear with the tip of his tongue and feels Cas's full-body shiver down to his bones. "It's tradition."

Tipping his head back, Cas laughs breathlessly. "Thank you for supplementing my education on human custom," he says huskily, and Christ, that _voice_. "I appreciate enlightenment in whatever form it might take."

Dean chuckles, catching the lobe of his ear and bearing down, and Cas's breath catches, and beneath his coat, he feels Cas's fingers digging into his back. Satisfied, he sucks it, tongue soothing over the indentation of his teeth in the warm skin. "Anytime."

The alley's just dark enough that he can plausibly pretend they're alone right up until a moan from somewhere farther down the alley gets both their attention. Cas blinks, looking so startled that Dean starts to laugh before fingers tighten in his hair impatiently, just enough to sting, and Cas's tongue makes him forget everything but the impossible heat of his mouth, the length of warm body pressed against him, Jesus, the _sounds_ : wet and eager.

He wants all of them: the way Cas catches his breath when Dean does something he likes and the low, dark sound that vibrates against Dean's lips when he does something Cas _really_ likes and all the ones between. Cas's poker face is fucking amazing, but he was right about where Cas's tells come out; years of being an angel wearing a human body might have taught him to control his expression, but he's had a lot less time actually living in one to figure out how to control it. Then again, maybe he never thought he needed to; when it comes to sex, showing what you want, what you like, is pretty much a feature, and Dean has visual evidence that Cas during sex is really okay with sharing that information as much as possible.

(He wonders if Theodore taught him that, and Jesus Christ, what's _wrong_ with him?)

He hears himself growl, easing a protective hand behind Cas's head before shoving him flat against the brick, greedily swallowing the startled gasp and still wanting more. Biting Cas's lip, he ducks his head to suck a kiss just below his jaw, tilting Cas's head back to reveal the long stretch of his throat and trailing down the cool skin until he can feel Cas's pulse throbbing headily against his lips. Cas's breathing speeds up as he licks over it, feeling it jump against his tongue before sinking his teeth into the thin skin, and Cas stops breathing altogether, going still and quiet, and what do you know, Dean likes that, too. He likes it even better when he sucks a kiss into the wet skin and feels Cas's low moan vibrating against his lips, a slur of sound that might be his name. Pulling back, he surveys the darkening blotch, thumb tracing over the indentations of his teeth as he slides his tongue into the drugging heat of Cas's mouth. 

It's like being a teenager again, but not like he was, like he remembers it being: moving and school and hunting and taking care of Sam meant when he hit puberty, he already knew taking it slow would mean not getting anywhere at all. He doesn't regret it, never has, but he's not entirely sorry Cas thought he needed--whatever the hell they're doing--and not just because that might have been kind of true.

(He's not _apprehensive_ , exactly; that's not the right word.)

Cas's partners are double digit at least (and in multiples), and he lost count of his own years ago, when he realized what those kinds of numbers probably meant for his future. Cas is his best friend and knows him better than anyone but Sam ever could or will, but that's a two edged sword. Ideally, learning the less than positive shit should come after your partner's invested enough not to run away screaming (to get a restraining order, a license for a gun, and a new home security system and not necessarily in that order: that's called being realistic). Sure, there's a different standard when it comes to another hunter, and even that one doesn't apply when it comes to Cas, but that's the entire goddamn problem.

If this fails, it won't be because he's a hunter, was a demon, was responsible for bringing on the Apocalypse, or for his felony indictments under multiple aliases and also being legally dead. Here, he's legally alive at least, though wanted for faking his own death, along every crime in existence and possibly some they invented just for him.

(In no other world would one or more of those individually not be dealbreakers; this one, he can also be a joint homeowner with a steady job, a significant other, friends with which to eat barbecue, and what is technically a really big lawn that needs mowing (not by him, but whatever). It occurs to him that for all intents and purposes, he's now officially living the American Dream.) 

Pulling back to get a full breath, Dean makes himself face reality (and not wonder whether they should get a dog: why not?).

If this fails, it'll be because he's shitty at being a partner, and he doesn't even have the advantage of being an awesome father figure to Cas's semi-existent kid to compensate because Vera and Joe got dibs on Jeremy before he even existed here, fuck his life. (He won't deny the sex helped (a lot), but he's pretty sure Ben was what kept Lisa from kicking him out on his ass one month in.) Worse, he's at a disadvantage when it comes to sex, and it's not like he's not willing to catch up (soon, please God), but that means that all he's got going for him is that Cas knows less than he does about relationships and may not notice if he's bad at it (read: _when_ and _how bad_ : let's be realistic here), and Christ that's a shitty thing to admit you're grateful for, but he really doesn't care.

(If Sam didn't just facepalm and mutter something about Dean's standards and emotional maturity, he'll be really goddamn surprised. He hopes Sam was holding a pencil or something when he did it, though; payback's a bitch, _bitch_ , he's being _realistic_ here.)

On the other hand, if he can manage to make a disturbing number of people (and a few towns, Jesus Christ) believe he's a competent leader, he can pull off 'partner'. What he needs here is--

"Why," Cas murmurs, thumb sliding down his temple, "are you looking at the wall like that?"

Dean remembers the Merlin and Snuggie conversations and considers whether he actually wants to know (answer: hell yes). "How am I looking at it?"

"As if you're planning best how to destroy it and salt the earth on which it stood should it defy your will," he answers promptly, tugging Dean closer until he can feel the warm puff of Cas's breath against his lips. "If you're finished plotting its untimely demise, your attention would be appreciated."

Dean's helpless grin continues through the kiss, shoving up the back of Cas's sweater and thermal and t-shirt (three layers, Jesus) to touch skin and suddenly nothing else matters but getting more of it and now.

Before he can start working in that direction (or remember how to care about the subzero temperature since being in a public alley with an unknown number of people stopped being a dealbreaker like four goddamn days ago; why the hell aren't they at Alison's again?), Cas jerks his gaze toward the mouth of the alley. Dean has just enough to wonder what the hell (not like Cas has a problem with public performances) when he hears someone saying, "Dean? Cas? We got everything," and remembers why they're in this alley and not at Alison's wearing a lot less clothes. He checked out the satisfactory state of the poker games, sent Vera and Amanda to the jeep to get a few bottles of Eldritch Horror and some ammunition, at which time he noticed there was an alley and since they were waiting anyway….yeah.

The only thing he doesn't know is _why the fuck he cared about poker in the first place_. Leave the freezing roof, go back to Alison's, that's all he had to do, and yet, here they are. 

(Drop the sweatshirt on the floor: he's seeing a pattern here.)

"Dean?" A little closer now, and she's enjoying herself, he can tell. "Cas? Anytime now: time's a-wasting, and cocoa could be going to bed with its new owners even as we speak."

"If we don't answer…." He trails off, frowning down the alley at the next, much closer repetition of their names from the street, now hearing the unmistakable laughter in her voice. "I'm gonna get her for this."

"Technically speaking," Cas says, brushing his lips against Dean's, a tease, "she's following your orders at the moment."

Amanda's voice comes again, close enough that she must've just reached the mouth of the alley and they got maybe fifteen seconds before she finds them. Fuck it, Amanda is gonna find them, but she hasn't yet. 

"Come here." Cupping Cas's face, he tugs him into a kiss, memorizing the shape of his smile, laughing into his mouth when Cas's hands slide into the back pockets of his jeans and pull him in. When Amanda finds them, her laughter echoing down the alley and getting the attention of probably everyone around them, he's startled to realize he forgot all about her.

* * *

Dean's gotta admit, he's been waiting for this since he sat Cas down with a pack of cards and explained how to _really_ play poker. 

In retrospect, it shouldn't have surprised him that Cas was shitty at it, not if he learned it while still an angel. While craps is you against the odds, poker is you against _people_ , and Cas was probably still pretty sketchy on even _being_ people himself back then, much less manipulating them for other than professional (ie: the Host's) gain.

Unexpected benefit of two years and change of mortality and living in Chitaqua: Cas got over it, got a taste for it, and got really, really good at it. Translating that (kind of terrifying) skill to poker wasn't hard once Dean explained that poker wasn't about playing the hand you're given, but playing everyone at the table so they won't play theirs.

"Even if you cheat, the odds are always gonna be against you," he explained, watching approvingly as Cas shuffled and stacked the deck at just barely below a blur so as not to incite suspicious (read: smart) people to call cheating. "So you don't try to win with your hand; you just make sure everyone else thinks they're gonna lose with theirs."

Cas paused his shuffling, and he could almost see the click of enlightenment. "Oh."

"Deal," Dean told him with a grin. "And I'll show you how you make them think just that."

Slumped into the warm comfort of a broken-down sofa in one of the former bank offices, he watches in drowsy satisfaction as Cas calls the hand, laying his cards out with methodical precision on the battered remains of what he assumes was a kitchen table before it lost all its legs. The disbelieving eyes of the other seven players are just icing: delicious, delicious icing.

"I think," Cas says after a perfectly timed pause, "that this hand is mine."

"I don't believe this," Vera says, throwing down her cards as Cas collects his winnings, Anyi and Dina morosely consider their remaining stakes, and Amanda wisely realizing that keeping her silence on Cas's improved poker game (and a surprisingly good bid, by the way, though not better than Joe's) definitely won her hippofucker's unfinished adventures. "What the hell did you teach him?"

"Your free dimebag days are done," he answers, admitting nothing, but the pile on the floor beside Cas probably speaks for itself. Among the spoils are four bottles of currant wine, two of whiskey, a bottle of vanilla, three pairs of socks (one in its original packaging), two pounds of cheese, a jar of strawberry preserves, a double knit wool blanket, two lightbulbs in their original packaging (he checked), and to top it off, _two_ tins of cocoa. Leaning against the couch between Dean's legs, Cas tips his head back, solemn expression utterly _perfect_ , and it's a physical effort not to kiss him. "Let's see what we got this time."

Tea, nice; three and a half pounds of coffee, excellent; you really can't go wrong with more socks, cool--oh. "Hold up." Bracing a hand on Cas's shoulder, he points. "What's under those socks?"

Before his disbelieving eyes, Cas unearths a Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, unopened, in packaging not unlike something a lot less than two years old and acquired before the borders closed. On closer inspection, that's exactly what it is. 

"Holy shit," he breathes, ignoring the glares of the other players as he reverently unwraps it and finds two perfect cups inside, snug in their individual wrappers as the heartbreakingly delicious smell of chemically-created chocolate and peanut butter fills the air. Aware of Cas's curious expression, he grins. "Dude, life just got like, ten times more awesome. You can stop now," he adds after a quick check of their booty, magnanimous in victory. "I think we're good."

"You get there's literally nothing about using your boyfriend to get you shit that isn't wrong," Vera says bitterly as Cas eases their winnings over and climbs onto the couch beside him while Kara, one of Amanda's students, begins to deal a new hand with a renewed spirit of hope. "Nothing," she repeats, picking up her cards mutinously.

"Except the delicious peanut butter cup results; if that's wrong, I don't wanna be right." Taking a bite, he tries not to moan: fuck, he missed processed sugar and artificial flavoring in delicious candy form. Grinning at Cas's bewildered expression, he holds out the other half. "Try it. Depressingly, you'll like it, and we're probably never getting more of it, so enjoy it while it lasts."

Ignoring Cas's suspicious look, he sits up enough to push it between Cas's parted lips, knowing it's a mistake and unable to pretend to care when he sees the look on Cas's face.

It's only Vera's " _Seriously_?" that tells him he's been staring way too long, but Cas's blissful expression isn't something he sees enough to want to miss even once. Before he can think better of it, Dean wipes his thumb over the smudge of chocolate at corner of his mouth and licks it clean, which is probably--definitely--really goddamn something. 

"Well?" If his voice cracks, whatever.

Cas's eyes fix on the second cup for a long, acquisitive moment before darting to Dean's face, and that's all the warning Dean gets on what other useful lessons Dean's taught him.

"Please," dragged out like whiskey over gravel, and Dean's breaking the second one in half in a daze, unable to imagine looking away when Cas takes it from his fingers with his goddamn _teeth_.

"Again," Vera states at some point. " _Seriously?_ "

"Don't say it," Cas murmurs before he can open his mouth and point out the location of Amanda and how orgasms help mood because science. "Think of her expression when you tell her and Joe they're in charge of Chitaqua for a week."

Actually, that helps, yeah. "Fine," he says, squeezing Cas's knee before sinking back into the couch and finishing his half of the last peanut butter cup he may ever eat.

Tipping his head back, Dean lets the ongoing conversations wash through him, comfortable enough to fight to the death if someone tries to make him move. If his slump is getting more toward Cas, it's just because he's warm, a human-shaped space heater that makes him consider the feasibility of crawling into Cas's lap and bury his face against his neck for completely platonic warmth-related purposes (and he hopes Vera asks so he can give that exact answer). 

Then someone is touching his face with fucking _frozen_ fingers, the sharp chill jerking him upright, blinking uncertainly. He reaches up to push it away, but his hand's caught in a preternatural grip--hey Cas--and then abruptly he's in a sitting position with no clear idea how he got there before Cas pulls him to his feet. It's only because he's standing right there that Dean doesn't fall right over, black spots dancing before his eyes for a long moment before they clear and vaguely, he doesn't think that's a good sign.

"We have an early morning," Cas announces lazily to the room at large, getting to his feet and somehow bringing Dean with him, arm sliding around his waist before he's awake enough to stumble. "Before we go--Vera, if you have a minute? I'd like to go over a few things."

At her nod, Cas leads Dean to a nearby corner, where Dean leans gratefully against the wall as normally as possible, wondering what the hell is wrong with him (honest to God, if this is a fever, he's rounding up every brownie on the planet and introducing them to the words 'extinction event').

"How are you feeling?" Cas braces a hand just above Dean's shoulder, screening him from the rest of the room as the long fingers touch his forehead, blue eyes unfocusing for a moment. "Headache, chills--"

"I’m fine," he answers irritably, deciding he will be by sheer will if it kills him. "Just been a long day."

"I agree." One corner of his mouth quirks mischievously as he drops his hand. "It's just under three digits," he adds reassuringly. "You're simply overtired, which isn't surprising, as you didn't sleep much last night."

A fever at least would explain why his face feels hot; all that happened last night was some necessary late-night plumbing and a little fully-clothed making out after a shitty nightmare before dragging his ass out of bed an unholy two hours before dawn. For the last four nights, true, but whatever.

Vera materializes beside Cas, looking Dean over like he's a roast that she can't tell has finished cooking or not. To his horror, she actually starts to check his temperature before Cas clears his throat, but even so, he can see her fighting a smile. 

"I warned you to take it easy tonight," she says smugly. "It takes a while to get back your endurance--"

"Blah blah and oh, right, _blah_ ," he interrupts, in case she doesn't get how little he cares.

Annoyingly, her smile widens. "Get some sleep like a good boy and you'll be fine."

"It's a party!" he protests, which is immediately followed by a jaw-cracking yawn. Fuck his life. "I don't believe this."

"We'll be at Alison's tonight," Cas tells Vera. "You and Joseph are in command until dawn. Is there anything--"

"I'm standing _right here_ ," Dean reminds them grimly, punctuated with another goddamn yawn, which makes Vera fucking _laugh_ , because she's like that. "We got that meeting--"

"Vera and Joseph can handle it," Cas interrupts, rolling his eyes. "We'll only be on the other side of Main if we're needed."

"I'll check in afterward," she assures them. "Verbal report okay?"

He's tempted to tell her there's a five page minimum, but he's not actually sure where Alison keeps her laptop or notebooks and doesn't want to. "Fine. Tell Alison…" that he's being put to bed like a two year old; yeah, that'll inspire confidence.

"Don't worry; she mentioned earlier that you looked a little flushed and wanted me to remind you to take care of yourself," Vera assures him, to his outrage. "Yeah, she said that'd annoy you. She won't mind at all. Anything else?"

"Find out who's taking over for Alison; probably Claudia, but double check. Also, find out if Ichabod needs any help with clean-up or their visitors tomorrow." He fights down another yawn, trying to think of anything else he should add here. "Full meeting an hour before noon, and sex, drugs, and rock n'roll won't be considered a good excuse to be late."

"Got it." Vera waits for his nod before skipping back a step, giving them a cheerful wave as she returns to the game. With a sigh, Dean pushes off the wall--no black spots this time--and gets Cas's sleeve to haul him out the doorway and through the gambling lobby to the double doors that lead outside.

The hit of cold air helps clear his head a little; blinking, he takes in the number of people filling Third Street and glances at Cas. The memory of what happened the last time Cas was in a crowd in the street--the memory how that guy looked at _him_ \--burns away the remaining drowsiness as they start toward the western side of the street. 

"Christ," he mutters, just avoiding a group hurrying by that seems to consist of frazzled-looking parents and sleepy kids, turning slightly to watch them take the alley exit to Fourth.

"Tony will probably need to open Fifth soon," Cas observes, sliding out of the way of a couple of way too drunk women blocking traffic who seriously need to get a room already and no, he's not looking, because he's not that kind of guy and Cas is _right here_. Not looking _much_. "If he hasn't already, that is."

"Open Fifth?" Looking around again, he frowns. "About how many people now? Ballpark?"

"Nine and three quarters thousand people," Cas answers, moving Dean and himself out of the way of another tired-looking group. "Possibly ten, excluding the children currently in the daycare of course."

"You're kidding." Startled, he almost stumbles into a guy juggling three plastic cups who looks at them in surprise before focusing on Cas, and hell no. Muttering an apology, he closes a hand over Cas's wrist and tugs him onto the sidewalk and speeds up their pace until they reach the faded orange and white stripped roadblocks spaced along the width of the western side of the street. Waving at one of Tony's people and the patrol team, on duty for guest-wrangling purposes (a thankless job if there ever was one from the looks of the cranky looking people coming in) Dean waits for the nod of recognition before going around the roadblock and starting the cold, dark trek toward Main.

"Okay," he says as the noise noticeably drops in proportion to the lack of light, reluctantly letting go of Cas's wrist and shoving his hands in his pockets. "Say that again?"

"Nine and a three-quarters to ten thousand people, excluding children under twelve," Cas repeats obediently. "On our way back from Sixth, I noted that Fifth had several stray groups and Fourth was becoming more crowded. Despite that, Third is still two-thirds full from street occupation."

Dean stares at his profile. "You do this for fun, don't you?"

"Your expression at the meeting earlier was very funny when I elucidated on street capacity," Cas confirms. "I've paid attention in anticipation of you asking so I could see it again." He flickers a glance at Dean, blue eyes bright. "Do you want the rest?"

Christ. "Impress me."

"Fourth has no publicly accessible buildings--though I doubt that's stopped anyone who wanted to get out of the cold or desired privacy--but does have the attraction of a bonfire and most of the vendors and alcohol, so it should be more attractive than Third if one wants to be outside right now. As Third still has a large number of people in the streets despite the lack of amenities, that means the publicly-accessible buildings are almost full and probably all of the others that aren't actively falling down and that Fourth is close to or has reached maximum capacity in regard to human comfort levels regarding personal space. Without an exact headcount, I can't be certain of the numbers, but human behavior when it comes to space is very predictable, so I can make an estimate."

Before he can pretend he's not impressed (or wonder uneasily if that's supposed to be hot), he's interrupted by another goddamn yawn and seriously? "Ugh. What the hell?"

"If it's any consolation," Cas says as Main Street's roadblocks come into view, "I nearly fell asleep with you on the couch before I realized what was happening."

Dean starts to say it is--it's not like Cas is getting any more sleep than he is--when it hits him; Cas really _isn't_ getting more sleep than he is. Literally. "Because you're up with me every night."

"It's like watching late night network television when one lacks basic cable," Cas muses. "Without commercial interruption, and realizing that you miss that very, very much. While I never had any desire to buy a Swiffle or needed super-absorbent sanity products, it was interesting to watch someone being unnaturally enthusiastic about the ability of a tampon to absorb a cup of blue liquid while never actually stating why one would have excess blue liquid in need of being absorbed." He makes a face. "Google was more forthcoming on the actual purpose, and the sheer number of inaccuracies…. For one, the so-called liquid it's supposed to absorb is actually--"

"Don't want to know and wait, you're saying I'm boring?" The look on Cas's face says he walked right into that one, and fights back a snarl: time to return to the goddamn subject. "Like I was saying, you don't have to stay up with me--except right, you actually do, don't you?" Cas hesitates, and yeah, that's what he thought. "Like almost falling asleep back there. It's not just--an urge or whatever it was before we redid the wards on the cabin. You have to."

Cas makes a face. "I wouldn't say 'have to' so much as 'highly recommended'. Then again, I haven't been terribly interested in testing it, since the company certainly provides motivation to--"

"Cas."

"I also have to eat and drink, breathe, sleep, and regularly excrete waste," Cas says, nose wrinkling reflexively on the last, because he's just still not over that. "None of those things are or ever have been under my control since I became mortal, so why you think this--of all things--should be an issue worthy of discussion escapes me."

"Maybe those are normal and me doing--that--to you isn't!"

"The human body isn't normal to me, for value of normal when my incorporeal form is the only standard by which I have to judge," Cas answers evenly, but he winces anyway; he really could have put that better. "If you wish, I can test it when we return to Chitaqua, but it's not particularly high on my priority list at the moment. In any case, there are some advantages, not least of which is that you're now unable to surreptitiously leave the camp alone without my knowledge while I'm sleeping. Which your history indicates is a genuine concern."

Dean forces himself to smile as they reach the roadblock, waving to those on duty, who are bundled in coats and looking miserable as they wave forlornly back. As soon as they're past them, he starts to pick up where they left off and belatedly realizes something else. "You knew something was different now, though." Cas's expression says yeah, he did. "When were you gonna get around to telling me?"

He regrets it the minute he says it; Cas tenses so fast that Dean can almost hear the muscles snap as Cas's spine redefines 'straight' for the masses (read: Dean). Sure, it may be invisible to anyone else, but he can see it and knows exactly what it means.

"I mean," he corrects himself--way too late, yeah, but he's hoping Cas will grade for effort, "I was just wondering when you found out," Oh God, no, not better. "Look, I wasn't saying you were hiding it--"

"My relief can't be measured by any known metric, being beyond human comprehension," Cas says in his critically acclaimed performance of 'guy who's relieved', "but take as a given that it can only be expressed on a quantum scale."

It occurs to him at this moment that if nothing else, Cas has really raised his standards when it comes to arguments. Shouting, screaming, slamming doors, punching walls, stomping around with mandatory profanity is for amateurs. As far as he's concerned, if you're pissed enough to need to express it, you should put some effort in it, challenge yourself a little, multitask that shit and educate you audience while you're at it. If you can't do it with obscure historical references, math from the future, King James, graph theory, or physics (sometimes in combination), you just aren't trying.

(Quantum, for those who don't live like this (sometimes, he wonders what that's like), is basically 'small as you can get and still exist'. Also, there are quarks named 'top' and 'bottom', and he's still trying to work out if Cas was just sharing information so Dean can ace the next theoretical physics exam that comes his way or trying a surprisingly original pick-up line; it could go either way.)

So maybe he should just ask the only question he actually cares about already and get this over with (that way, he also doesn't have to admit he'd kill that fucking test). "It doesn't bother you?"

Cas makes him wait until the porch steps of Alison's building come into view before gracing Dean with his attention. "No."

"Okay." He considers leaving it at that, but-- "You get that was months ago, right?"

"What?"

"Leaving the camp while you were asleep." Jogging up the stairs, he opens the door and steps over the salt line, waiting for Cas to come inside before shutting it firmly behind him and herding him toward the hall and their room. "Three times, Cas, almost _five months ago_. Get over it already."

When Cas flips on the lights to their room, he makes a point of looking back just so Dean can see him roll his eyes in eloquent acknowledgment he just dodged one hell of a bullet, and he grins back, satisfied.

Yawning, Dean pulls off his coat and tosses it toward the chair before dropping on the bed and gets as far as thinking about undressing before giving up and falling back onto the unbelievable comfort of the mattress. Stretching, he yawns again, not fighting it anymore, because yeah, he's exhausted, but it's the good kind, the kind where there's a reason for it that's not 'because goddamn fever'. Vaguely, he hopes that Vera or Amanda gets their gambling spoils for them; maybe a tin of cocoa could be sacrificed for this mattress.

He's mostly drifting on a sea of sleepy procrastination when a thump penetrates, waking him up enough to remind him that sleeping in his clothes is fine but he's got to at least remove his boots. Sighing, he pushes up on an elbow just in time to see Cas peeling off his thermal shirt, leaving him in only a t-shirt, and stops short.

The thing is, Cas wasn't entirely wrong; it's just the word he was looking for wasn't 'apprehensive'. He's _not_ apprehensive, but if he had a gun to his head, he'd admit that if a word was really needed here (he doesn't think so, but whatever), he'd go with something closer to 'surprised', and for the record, he wouldn't mind a few more like this one. Apprehensive, fuck that, but if there were two guns (and he was unarmed, tied to a chair, and someone had a gun to Cas's head as well), another word he wouldn't argue with is 'adjusting'.

Adjusting: totally different thing.

When he looks at Cas now--which even he's got to admit he was doing way more than any reasonable explanation could cover before (that's why he had several of 'em just in case)--he's _adjusting_ to the fact that he does it (and enjoys it) for several reasons. Adjustment takes repetition, so to do this right, he's looking (and enjoying) a lot and by that he means 'all the time'. Especially times like this.

Settling back, he watches Cas reach for the hem of the t-shirt, skimming it over his head along with the almost-normal he wears for human consumption, all the ways that he's learned to pass for human on a glance discarded with the thin cotton he folds over the back of the chair. Straightening, he tips his head back with an abbreviated shrug like he's shaking free of public Cas before reaching back to rub the back of his neck, head bent forward and face hidden behind a fall of dark hair. It's always cool to watch the transition, Cas going from a visitor in a too-small human-suit to living inside his skin.

He can't pick out most of the differences anymore, he's too used to them, but the energy is unmistakable, unfolding itself from wherever Cas hides it in plain sight and rushing along every muscle like live current after the flick of a switch. It took him a while to realize the most anyone else ever saw was the barest edges of it, restlessness, fidgeting, Cas unable to keep still like a hyperactive toddler on a two day sugar rush and no, no, it's not like that. That's like a shock of static when you rub your feet against the rug and missing the contained nuclear detonation in progress a few feet away.

Adjustment: Dean can now fully appreciate the view--what did Cas call it?--right, on the _aesthetic_ level. That would be really fucking good, if anyone asks, and if they do, he'd have to wonder what the fuck is wrong with their eyes because come _on_. Months of regular, enforced eating, and Cas has officially escaped 'gaunt'--a good look for anyone and Cas does amazing things with it--and almost radiates good health, sharp bones less prominent, softened, drawing attention to the stretch of defined muscle across his back and arms. Taking the scenic route downward, Dean notes the narrow waist and the sharp bones of his hips where the denim's clinging for dear life--that should be illegal outside controlled conditions, Jesus--the long thighs hidden by the too-large jeans down to the bare feet peering out from the white-frayed hem.

Dropping into a boneless, soundless crouch, Cas unzips his bag, balanced on the balls of his feet so effortlessly it looks like he could do it forever (Dean tried that, one minute, maybe two, before he fell over). Finding the t-shirt and sweatpants on the first try and setting them on the chair, he zips the bag back up before smoothly straightening, and Dean's enjoying the show so much that it doesn't hit him what's coming until Cas unbuttons his jeans one-handed and they crumple to the floor.

Adjustment is awesome, he thinks in the tiny corner of his mind not otherwise occupied with real life in slow-motion as Cas slides the thermals down his legs in the time it takes at least one major civilization to rise and fall. Dean's a guy and checking out another guy's dick comes standard (if it's there, why not), but it's one thing to take it in for vague compare and contrast purposes (mostly) and a really different thing to do it with the intention of personally getting acquainted with it (and adding a little realism to certain shower-related activities, just to check for any unforeseen complications for dealing with purposes. He's glad to report there have been none, but it never hurts to be sure. Repetition is useful like that).

The faded grey boxer-briefs, stretched elastic hanging below Cas's hips (he assumes magic is all that's keeping them there: evil magic) are too loose to do anything but tease, but body memory helpfully replays the feel of Cas's cock rubbing against his own (because it's sadistic like that) and there we go.

 _You're curious_ , Cas told him on Christmas Eve, and that was true, a lot like snow isn't known to be very warm. Now--now he may need Cas's mental thesaurus to give him the word for this, because he's kind of tapped for vocabulary and education is never wasted. Apprehension, no: anticipation, fuck yeah, building more every day, thinking about what he knows in theory and what he can guess, and there's nothing he doesn't want to try at least once (and most he already knows he'll like). 

(The memory of that casual strength, _I have no objection to touching you_ , the fingers tight around his wrists, guiding them to the hem of his shirts, _Take them off for me_ , the way Cas _looked_ at him. He wanted Cas to look at him like he looked at people that he wanted, but pushed into the couch by the weight of Cas's body, he learned just how wrong he was; he wants how Cas looked at him that night, like Dean was the _only_ thing he wanted, that he'd _ever_ want.)

As Cas slides into his sweatpants in a single efficient movement, Dean drops (hopefully soundlessly) back onto the bed, because the line between teasing himself and torture is becoming narrower by the day. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath, already knowing it's too late to try and will his cock into giving the fuck up; there's a reason the only time he thinks of Christmas Eve is when he's safely in the shower with the water on (hot or cold at that point he doesn't even care) and even then tries not to (if he can help it, and sometimes, he can't). Three minutes (at best), he's shaking against the tile, still half-hard and more frustrated than relieved, trying to convince himself he imagined that look because then, just maybe, he'll stop wanting something that doesn't even exist.

He's trying to find the motivation to sit up--maybe even remove his boots before going to sleep, but no promises there--when the lights go out. Startled, he opens his eyes in time for the gentler flare of light from the lamp beside the bed in his peripheral vision, and abruptly, Cas appears in front of him, depressingly fully dressed for bed. 

"Do you plan to fall asleep there?" Cas asks politely, like Dean's done this so many times that his history makes it a genuine concern, Jesus Christ, _that was three times almost five months ago_ , let it the fuck _go_.

He lifts a hand enough to gesture vaguely: eh, why not?

"Along with the establishment of a daily routine consisting of regular meals and a set time to go to sleep, changing clothes before going to bed is a mandatory requirement to live like people," Cas recites, eyes lingering on Dean's footwear with a pained look. "While your explanation of the concept of 'like people' has been somewhat lacking, your utilization of the principles of classical conditioning was successful beyond belief despite the fact I was perfectly aware of what you were doing."

Dean slow blinks his bewilderment that Cas would think he knows anything about Pavlov or a dog with a hardon for bells (or a cat that may or may not be in a goddamn box and a monkey that thinks its mom is made of wire, whatever). And if some people are wondering if you could call the cabin a really elaborate Skinner box, he'd have no idea what they were talking about.

"What's the Latin word for 'rat' again?" he asks curiously, and that, friends, is how you level the fuck up. If you can't do it with obscure references to twentieth century psychology experiments in ten words or less, you just aren't trying.

Cas stares at him silently for a long moment then rolls his eyes, which Dean silently accepts as a win. "In any case…" His gaze drifts back down to Dean's boot-clad feet with a pained expression. "I can't let you go to bed like this, I mean that literally. Boots do not belong in bed when you plan to sleep."

That's all the warning he gets before Cas drops out of sight, and Dean pushes up on his elbows to stare blankly down the length of his body at Cas kneeling at his feet, _holy shit_.

"Uh." The mattress feels real, but he has a history of vivid hallucinations that have a very unsettling habit to have more or less actually happened, so. "What?"

"Relax," Cas tells him irritably, tugging Dean's right foot into his lap and with it two-thirds of Dean's ability to deal with this rationally. "I'll take care of it."

He knows Cas isn't actually fucking with him via weaponized sexual attraction (though not like he's above it or anything), but fucking with him via being super helpful, which are two very, very different things. This is Cas (who also maybe should learn about the word 'adjustment') utterly oblivious to how the same action reads a lot different with a change of context, or the fact he's inventing entirely new kinks that Dean just didn't know could even exist. Like, say, casually removing your partner's boots as foreplay: that's a thing? _Why_ is that a thing? Because, by the way, that just _became_ a thing.

"In ancient times, the customs regarding hospitality included removing the footwear and then washing the feet of guests," Cas tells him conversationally, removing the first boot with so little effort that Dean's socked foot doesn't even know it's free before he's already removing the other one. "On their arrival, before dinner--in ancient Rome, socks might be offered to counteract the chill of the dining room or before guests retired to their bed. There were practical reasons, of course; when the primary footwear was sandals or the streets lacked paving, it tended to be a matter of assuring one's domicile was not tracked with dirt from the feet of the guests."

This is actually happening. "They washed people's feet when they showed up to hang out?" 

"A slave might be appointed to perform the task." Cas carefully sets Dean's boots beside his own before reaching beneath the hem of his jeans. "However, when the visitor was a close friend or of high rank and great importance, the host might perform this small service themselves to show respect." 

Dean nods, mostly resigned to a bedtime story about socks (about. socks), though it's not like this is the weirdest subject (Lucifer's lack of a sex life is definitely in the top three), and anyway he's actually kind of interested (fuck his life). Like, who invented socks, anyway? Making an effort, he sits up, about to ask about that when he realizes he's looking down at Cas (kneeling. On the floor) and the entirety of his attention is focused on the feel of Cas's fingertips just above the sagging top of the sock, warm even through the layer of thermal underwear. 

"In other times," Cas is saying, oblivious to subtext, "a bath would be offered. That duty could fall to either the chatelaine or the daughters of the house."

What the hell? "They--they bathed their guests?"

"Depending on the intimacy or rank of the guest, it might simply be ceremonial and she would supervise those servants or slaves assigned to the task." Achingly slow, the sock slides down Dean's leg, trailed by Cas's fingers, and he catches his breath when they skim over the bare skin of his Achilles tendon. Almost absently, Cas's other hand cups his heel, thumb braced just above the edge of the sock as it continues its endless journey off his foot. "If he was of high rank, however, she--or in some cases her eldest unmarried daughter--would perform the duty herself." Holding the empty sock, Cas looks at Dean, all blue eyed innocence. "Personally."

"Personally." He hears the quiver in his voice and hastily clears his throat. "Uh, so--I'm guessing nine months later, surprise new member of the family?"

"In some cultures, a highly anticipated and hoped-for member," Cas corrects him. Even though he knows it's coming, that just makes it a--a highly _anticipated_ shock when Cas eases the denim hem higher, fingers resting for a scorching moment against his calf, hot even through the thermal. "If male, the woman could be chosen as a concubine, having proven her fertility, and mother of the presumptive heir if no legal wives bore male issue. Sometimes, she might even become a wife, if she was intelligent and fortune favored her." Dean sucks in a breath at the slide of Cas's thumb down the back of his heel. "Even if the child were female, it could bring great honor and prosperity to the household. For the mother, that might take the form of a husband of rank and wealth. Women known to have pleased a king and proven their fertility were often sought after in court; taking such a one to wife assured their husband not only the probability of healthy offspring, but the favor of a king and guardianship of a child of royal blood and potentially half-sibling to the heir and future king, whether openly acknowledged by their father or not." 

"Huh." That's really all he's got here.

"It was traditional that the most beautiful daughters of the King of Ethiopia were sent to the court of the King of Egypt for his harem. Their children might sit on the throne as consort or even sovereign in their own right should there be no heirs born of his legal wife." Cas's thumb skims the arch of his foot, trailing off as the sock pulls free of Dean's toes. Hypnotized, he watches as Cas absently rolls them together before tossing them toward their boots without looking. "Harems were not uncommon in history, of course, though their occupants were far more often chosen for their high birth and political value, not their beauty or fecundity. During Mithridantes conquest of Pontus, he took a concubine from every satrap, insurance against rebellion. His harem numbered in the thousands." 

His boot-and-sock work complete, Cas starts to move and stops short when Dean digs his bare heels into Cas's lap. "Where are you going?"

"You should--"

"--get to bed, right." Dean cocks his head. "Gonna finish or what?"

Cas flickers an uncertain glance to the bare feet in his lap, eyebrows knitting uncertainly before looking at Dean. "Finish--describing harems in Pontus during the reign of Mithridantes?"

He thinks maybe it's time to teach Cas the meaning of 'context'. 

"Yeah, that too." Dean braces a hand on the mattress behind him and leans back, watching Cas go still, blue eyes dark; there we go. "Anytime you’re ready."

Dean can feel the drag of his gaze from his face to his feet and all the way back. "Where would you like me to start?"

He shrugs. "Your pick."

Cas rests his hands on Dean's knees, ghosting against his jeans before sliding just behind Dean's knees, and with a tug, he's sitting on the edge of the bed. Breath trapped in his throat, Dean closes his hands over the edge of the mattress and doesn't look away. 

"I'll start here," Cas says, tilting his head. "Stand up."

Dean obeys so fast he almost loses his balance, but Cas pushes off his heels and catches him before he can stumble, looking up at him with approving blue eyes. "Very good," he says, sliding his hands up Dean's thighs until he reaches the waist of the jeans. "Don't move."

Dazed, he manages to nod, breath catching as Cas's fingers skim the skin just above the denim and come to a pause just over the top button.

"Mithridantes had harems spread throughout Pontus," Cas says, thumbing open the top button, "so wherever he went, he was assured of the attention he felt was his due." Another button, Christ. "Some were left for years, even decades, between visits from their king. Their only company was the eunuchs that guarded them, their children on occasion…and each other, of course."

Dean nods jerkily, mouth dry. "Of course." A quick tug, and the remaining buttons part one by one before Cas guides the jeans down his legs, and Dean steps out of them at a touch. "What was it like? When you were there?"

Cas's voice lowers huskily. "They felt no sense of neglect, no loss in the lack of their master's attention. They enjoyed each other's company far too much to look upon a potential visit from their king as anything other than an inconvenience, and to dance attendance on his person an unpleasant duty."

Usually, this would be the stuff of Dean's fantasy life, but that was before and this is now and right now, he can't really focus on harems of hot women having sex with each other. Scrolling through his memory are hours spent indulging Sam's obsession with the goddamn Classic Movie Channel, decadent scenes of marble floors and sunken baths and bottles of oil, naked bodies emerging hip-high from pools, pitchers of water pouring over wet skin. 

Any other time, he'd ask what kind of mission required Cas be in Mithridantes' goddamn harem (and knowing what he knows now about the Host and sex, why the hell Cas got the job), but Cas wandering curiously around a harem of sexing women oiling each other in giant marble baths is pretty much the last thing on his mind when Cas is right in front of him.

"You may sit down now," Cas tells him after helping him into the wash-soft sweatpants, and after a long moment, Dean's brain catches up enough to remember what that is, dropping onto the edge of the bed like a sack of potatoes. 

Easing himself off his heels, Cas looks up at him; it takes everything for Dean not to move, hands clenched in the quilt, watching as Cas smoothly stands up. Tipping his head back, Dean meets the blue eyes and lifts his arms without prompting, because no one ever said that when he picks a course of action he doesn't know how to commit. 

Cas smiles slowly. "Good."

Never looking away, he bends down to grasp the hem of the sweater, gathering it in his hands as he slides it up Dean's body inch by excruciating inch, and Dean's arms are trembling by the time it's tugged over his head and deliberately folded before being set on the chair. Returning, Cas eases the thermal up as well, and Dean just manages not to gasp at the skim of fingers on his bare arms as the thermal's pulled free, folded, and placed on the chair.

Only a t-shirt left, and Dean fails at not shivering in anticipation as Cas comes back and hopes to God that Cas doesn't take that the wrong way. Pausing between Dean's knees, Cas looks at him before dropping into a crouch, and even though he sees it coming, he stills when Cas touches his cheek, palm shaping itself to his face. Without thinking, he turns into it, lips grazing the heel of Cas's hand, and almost hears the snap. In the time it takes to inhale, Dean's pressed into the mattress by the welcome weight of Cas's body, and forgets to exhale--forgets to _breathe_ \--with Cas's tongue buried in his mouth.

Tangling his fingers in Cas's hair, Dean rides the rush: of getting this, getting Cas, the taste and feel of him, _Jesus_ , arching helplessly when Cas's thigh rides against his cock, hips pinned to the bed; he's not going anywhere unless Cas lets him.

Then Cas _pulls back_ with an obscenely wet sound, and oh _fuck no_. "Cas," he starts, not giving a shit how desperate he sounds, trying to pull him back down and doesn't even realize Cas moved until his wrists are pinned to the bed with effortless ease.

Licking dry lips, Dean wonders dazedly how shitty an impression it would make to come right now and how much control he has over that anyway (answer: not much).

"Don't move," Cas says, fingers flexing in emphasis, and somehow, Dean manages to nod agreement; right now, there's pretty much nothing Cas could tell him to do that wouldn't get the exact same response. Satisfied, Cas smiles down at him, slow and dark. "I'm not done yet."

In a single easy stretch, Cas sits back on his heels, eyes trailing down Dean's body for what feels like years before his eyes fix on the rucked-up hem of his t-shirt. Bracing a hand on the bed by Dean's hip, he leans over, and Dean's head hits the mattress at the feel of Cas's mouth against the stretch of bare skin between t-shirt and sweatpants.

Staring up at the ceiling, Dean's aware of nothing but the wet brush of Cas's tongue, a hint of teeth before he sucks an endless kiss into the hypersensitive skin low on his belly that sparkles on the edge of pain before pulling back, licking soothingly before nosing the cotton higher and doing it again.

Forever: he didn't know the meaning of the word until now, when Cas marks a deliberate trail from stomach to collar, the thin cotton vanishing entirely between Cas's tongue in the hollow of his throat and sliding back into his mouth. He wants to touch Cas, but he doesn't move his hands, because he wants Cas more than he's ever wanted anyone or anything in his _life_.

Almost distantly, he feels Cas's fingers lace through his against the mattress before losing himself in the endless, drugging kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick apology: I was on call tonight for work and technically still am. If anyone asks, I was definitely working the entire time and not editing this in another window.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thanks to TKodami for reviewing this for me before posting. For she is awesome like that.
> 
> Second, we're about to go on first hiatus for about three weeks. My validations at work started last Sunday, so I'll be doing those full time for the next three weeks including most evenings. The next chapter will be posted on September 27th (though that may be delayed by a couple of days depending on when this release goes out at work). There is one caveat to this: TKodami also reviewed Chapter 5 for me already with some fixes, since three weeks is longer than I thought; depending on if I'm called tonight for more validations, I'll post Chapter 5 immediately, but I've already been called six times today and I have no faith in work understanding fic priorities.

_\--Day 151, continued--_

Still cursing, he breaks into a dead run, but he already knows he was too late again.

Shadows emerge from the bleak ruins of the buildings, faceless bodies with mocking smiles, but they vanish before he can get a shot off, and he can't take the time anyway, because maybe, maybe--

He nearly falls on the rotting steps, bursting through the beads in a headlong stumble and hits the floor on his knees, but the burst of pain's forgotten at the sight of a blood-stained street stretched out in front of him, the half circle of space around an unmoving body.

"No." It's Cas, sprawled on the asphalt with half his head gone; he's almost faster than a bullet, but only almost.

_\--where were you, why weren't you here, why did you let them do this--_

"I'm sorry," Dean whispers, crawling through the blood to Cas's side and rolling him over, bloody head in his lap. Looking into what remains of his face, all he can see is the blank stare of bloodshot blue eyes. "I didn't know, when I told you…I didn't _know_! I wouldn't have _let you_ …."

He trails off, searching for more words, but it's pointless; words don't do shit and they're lies anyway. 

Doing something, though: that's different. 

He looks around the street at the endless watching eyes of the crowd around them beneath the cheerful lights, wondering how this could happen. Cake, a party, make out with his goddamn boyfriend, show him the view from Sixth, give Cas an awesome night: that's all he wanted. Show him people were better if you just gave them a chance; he was wrong.

"I'll take care of it," Dean breathes; he will this time, like it should have been from the first. "I'm gonna invent something brand new for this, just for them. Promise." 

He's just gotta find that knife.

* * *

Dean comes awake at the sound of Cas's voice, sounding muffled, saying, "Repeat that."

"Maybe thirteen thousand, give or take," someone responds, and after a moment, Dean recognizes Vera's voice. "At least, that's best guess, no way to be sure. Not like we can do a head count…." Her voice trails off. "Cas?"

Sitting up, Dean tries to clear his head enough to follow what's going on. Alison's spare room, yeah, Cas putting him to bed like a cranky three year old because, holy shit, he was _tired_ , yeah. Cas seducing him with stories of foot washing through the ages and making out in bed and then….

"….thirteen thousand people, give or take, are within Ichabod?" That would be Cas. "You're certain?"

"According to the log, something like that." There's a pause. "Cas, it's a party after an almost five month hiatus on death by just existing," Vera says, sounding puzzled. "People do this. We get optimistic and get drunk to celebrate it. It's a thing."

Thirteen thousand people.

Dean shoves the covers off, the residual exhaustion vanishing under a hit of adrenaline as he swings his legs to the freezing wood floor and flips on the lamp. 

"Hey," he says as clearly as he can toward the cracked door, and has the satisfaction of silence before Cas comes in, trailed by Vera. "Anyone want to catch me up?"

"I was about to wake you," Cas answers, sitting down beside him. "Vera, tell Dean what you told me."

"Get a chair." Dean waves toward the empty one by the wall. "What's going on?"

"Meeting wrapped up about ten minutes ago," Vera answers, seating herself gracefully and crossing her legs before looking between them. "There wasn't much to report, but Naresh said they were getting more problems, nothing serious, and pretty much what you'd expect in a group this size. Anyi and Hans have patrol until dawn, and she and I ordered a couple of the teams to help him out, keep the peace, whatever."

"Thirteen thousand," Dean says. "Let's get back to that. When'd you get that?"

"After the meeting," she answers in bewilderment. "Sent Joe to bed, checked in at HQ and Admin, me and Teresa exchanged info before she went to bed, and Anyi took over. Why?"

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to decide just how crazy he wants to look here, but it's not like Vera ever thought he was sane. "What'd Manuel and Teresa say?"

"Nothing. I mean, they have the same numbers we do, we've checked in every hour. Alison did her--reading mood thing, and didn't pick up anything dangerous, and wards are fine."

He's missing something here, he knows it. "What time is it now?"

"About twenty to four," Vera answers impatiently. "It was a short meeting. Dean, come on. What's wrong?"

He looks at Cas and wonders if he should be relieved that the vague slump has become a lot vaguer. "Cas? How long has it been since we left the party?"

"One hour and forty minutes," he answers, looking into the middle distance. "It couldn't have been more than ten thousand, including the visiting children."

"And ten thousand, that's normal for a party in the infected zone, right?" Vera and Cas's blank expressions tell him they don't know either, which doesn't help. He does some quick math: take Cas's ten and subtract from the current total, that's three thousand people, divide by one and two-thirds hours and…wait, that can't be right. "Vera, you're _sure_ about those numbers?"

"Each team logged estimated numbers and locations after their shift in Cas's notebook starting after the eight o'clock meeting, along with anything that happened during their shift…." She trails off, looking between him and Cas. "What's going on?"

"How was the estimate calculated?" Cas asks Vera.

"Every group that arrived," she answers, frowning slightly. "One in ten otherwise, when we started getting more groups under ten. We played nice; people with kids get weird when someone armed starts asking them questions about where they came from, who knew? Amanda logged six thousand to start us off, and we did the math since."

"When did people start showing up today?" Dean asks Cas.

"An hour before dusk, not including merchants or vendors who arrived early for setup," Cas tell him quietly. "Dusk was at four thirty-eight."

"About thirteen hours ago." There we go. "So about thirteen thousand people now, seven thousand since eight, three thousand since we turned in at _two thirty_. Cas, math, what's wrong with this?"

"From three-thirty pm to eight o'clock pm yesterday, the average was roughly one thousand, three hundred per hour, but that number includes those vendors that arrived prior to three-thirty, some of those who brought supplies for the evening meal, and five hundred for Ichabod's residents, as some weren't able to attend the celebration or were under the age of three," Cas answers. "From eight o'clock until we left the celebration at approximately two, if my estimate is correct--and it is, within one hundred and sixteen people--the average would be six hundred and sixty-seven per hour," Cas answers. "From two o'clock AM until now, however, if the log is correct, the average for those two hours is two thousand and forty per hour."

Vera sits back. "That's one hell of a jump."

"What about all the kids in the daycare?" Dean asks. "Minus--"

"I calculated in a three hundred and fifty person exclusion to compensate for those who had their children with them most of the evening. If I'm off, it's by one hundred and fifty at best."

"Which wouldn't matter for the three thousand in the last two hours," Dean says grimly. "Am I crazy or is there something wrong with this math?"

"The logs could be off," Vera offers. "Teams changed every hour for Chitaqua and Ichabod; we could have had some double counting with four teams in rotation."

"There's that, yeah." Dean makes himself think logically and remember the daycare is, as yet, not on fire. "Okay, check the our log and Ichabod's, confirm the numbers with patrol if you can find 'em, see what you can get from Anyi, and oh, find Amanda. She was checking the logs every hour, she can tell us….crap, she's off-duty. Where the fuck did she say she was going to be tonight? Dina's, right?"

"She's still around, I think," Vera says, frowning, though Dean thinks that might be at the mention of Dina's name. "She took over HQ while I was at the meeting and told me before I left that she'd hang with me until dawn. Since Joe said I nailed the sitting around doing nothing thing we call 'leadership'."

Dean thinks it's pretty goddamn restrained of him not to comment on that. Yet, anyway. "Funny. So where is she now?"

"Said she wanted to check on something and would be back." Vera gets to her feet. "Want me to send her over when she gets back?"

"Yeah, thanks." Sighing, he waits for the door to close before dropping back on the bed with a sigh and wonders vaguely if it's if he can say he mixed up 'paranoia' and 'being really tired'. It could happen to anyone. 

As Cas gets up with a silent shift of springs (they've gotta get this mattress), Dean raises his head and realizes he's wearing a t-shirt (specifically, _Beastie Boys_ ) with a sense of foreboding, like maybe he doesn't want to think about why he's surprised by that. Though he could swear…. "Cas?" 

"Yes?" 

Pushing himself upright, Dean confirms sweatpants, t-shirt, and socks, standard nightwear for the (not very) active hunter that he packed himself yesterday morning and tries desperately to leave it there. It's just, he doesn't remember actually putting on--

Oh God, please let this be a fever (sheep?) or inexplicable amnesia (brain damage?) and not-- "Did I fall asleep?"

"Yes," Cas says absently, not even pausing in his rummage through their bag. "That can be assumed since you also woke up. Why?"

Leave it there, that's fine, it's not like it's-- "Were we--did I fall asleep on you?"

"'Under me' would be more accurate," Cas corrects him, like that's in any way relevant except for the part where that actually happened. Searching his memory in growing horror, Dean confirms that is exactly where he was before he--fell asleep. "You were difficult to awaken--"

Drop the shirt; go back to Alison's; _leave it alone_ : so simple, and yet here he is.

"--so I retrieved your t-shirt and socks, as the temperature has dropped," Cas is saying in case Dean is in any way thinking that he may escape this with something other than total fucking humiliation (thanks, Cas). Turning on the balls of his feet, Cas looks at him quizzically, like this is--is pretty much _anything_ but what it actually is. "Dean?"

What this is: he fell asleep _in medias foreplay_ (under Cas), who then couldn't wake him up so dressed him for bed (he was _under Cas_ ) and the only thing that could make this okay is if he's also dying (and even that's a stretch). 

"If you're curious," Cas offers after a moment, "it's not mandatory but definitely 'highly recommended'. Falling asleep," he explains, apparently under the impression that Dean can process anything. "I don't have to, but I do very much want to."

Dean remembers a time about--oh, two hours ago, give or take--where this was actually something he cared about. A simpler time, when his greatest worry was mindfucking his boyfriend into falling asleep because magic; he misses that.

"Dean?"

"I fell asleep." Dropping back, he stares up at the ceiling, going through a mental list of possible causes--curse, geas, compulsion, demons (somehow?), sudden, inexplicable fever (any sheep around?), witches (okay, not witches, fine), evil magical something (maybe?), too-comfortable mattress--and reluctantly lets them all go; time to deal. "I. Fell. Asleep."

"You were very tired," he hears Cas say like that's a sane explanation or something as the mattress dips to his right. "Don't worry; I didn't take it personally."

Opening his eyes, Dean searches Cas's face and fails to find the lie in the amused curve of his mouth. "Dude, I don't know how that happened."

"I expected as much." Pulling up a knee, Cas shrugs like this is common knowledge or something: Dean falls asleep during sex, nothing to worry about, happens all the time. Which--has this happened before? Has he been missing sex all this time because he's _falling asleep_ and Cas just hasn't gotten around to telling him? "You had a very long day."

Dean's never had to carry on what passes for a normal conversation with Cas while experiencing utter humiliation: like falling asleep _during sex_ , that's new (he hopes). It seems to be a theme. "And you're…." He doesn't know what goes there, but maybe Cas will figure it out.

"It's fine," he says dismissively, starting to add something before he looks down at the mattress between them and goes still. 

Dean waits, but nothing; glancing down at the quilt beneath his hand, he wonders fatalistically if Cas is about to add an interest in quilting to his list of things to do. No lie, they could use one, but maybe--just a suggestion--Cas could maybe _not forget he's talking to him_ and contemplate advanced sewing shit later. "Cas?"

Cas's head snaps up, looking surprised. "Yes--oh." He shrugs. "There will be other opportunities to indulge in the pleasures of the flesh, of course. Delayed gratification is only gratification multiplied."

Really. "And you're all about delaying gratification?"

"I could be," Cas counters. "Why not?"

While waiting for relief to set in, Dean can't help but notice that Cas showed more (unsettlingly) genuine emotion parting from his goddamn laptop than he is for Dean falling asleep _under him_ (God, that actually happened) during what was definitely going to be something ending in orgasms for all. He's glad Cas isn't pissed--though he wouldn't blame him--and understands that Dean's cursed (metaphorically, fine), but a little disappointment wouldn't be out of place here. 

Or--this being Cas--take that shit as a challenge, say something like _Vera may be some time, perhaps we should pick up where we left off?_ at which time Dean would say _Hell yes_ but this time, he's not taking any chances, the door's gonna be locked and he's going to be naked. And Cas'll say _Excellent idea, would you like to--_ and Dean will say _Yes. Now take off your fucking pants already and let's get this show on the road._

What Cas says is, "Do you wish to go back to sleep until Vera returns with the logs?" And _means it_. While--staring at the goddamn mattress, okay, fine. Then he licks his lips, looking at Dean with an expression he can't quite read. "I'll wake you up, of course."

"Nah, I'm good," he says, scrambling to his feet and Cas frowns. "Bathroom, be right back."

* * *

Dean actually does need to use the facilities for their actual intended purpose (he just isn't sure how he feels about jerking off in a shower he's not semi-committed to, and he's hazy on that being okay for guests to do, anyway), and does his mirror routine as he washes his hands. Paranoid, he reminds himself hopefully, staring at what he thinks is a perfectly normal face in the mirror before realizing in horror what he's doing and stops.

Paranoid: that's the reason he's mentally reviewing every conversation he's had with Cas since the Bathroom Thing because Cas can lie with the absolute truth and there's gotta be something he's missed to explain why Guy Who Schedules Daily Orgies (plural, as in _more than one a day_ ) and between times might nail someone against a goddamn cabin wall in view of the camp (who were outside and also maybe invisible) is more enthusiastic about his laptop and giving extensive hand massages than….

Paranoid: that thing you do where you're acting goddamn crazy for no (maybe some?) real reason (he hopes).

In the spirit of not being crazy, he rinses off the soap and reaches to turn off the faucet before he stops short, rapidly cooling water running over his hands as he takes in the reddish marks circling his wrists. Swallowing, he fumbles the water off and turns his hand, tracing the shape of Cas's fingers in his skin and pressing into the darkening smudge at the side of his right wrist from Cas's thumb, breath catching at the brief flare of pain. So that's what Cas was looking at

He only hesitates a second before tugging up the t-shirt and staring at the neat line of purple marching from beneath the edge of his sweatpants to just below his collarbone.

Even he can't work out how that fits into paranoid theory of Dean Is Less Attractive Than Spreadsheets and Massage Therapy; that might be because it's a stupid goddamn theory and he's acting crazy. 

Dropping the soft cotton, he goes back out the door and down the hall, pushing open the half-open door. "Cas--" he starts and stops short at the sight of Amanda, looking worried and way too goddam armed and Cas reading--something. What's she doing here?

"I was at HQ when Vera showed up," she says, smiling briefly, but something in her expression makes him still. "Got a few things."

Right, _that_. Giving up (there will be opportunities, per Cas), he crosses to the bed, pointing tiredly at the chair. "Sit down. So, whatcha got?"

* * *

"Short version: if the logs are off, it's not by much," Amanda finishes, perched on the empty chair and looking between them as Cas scans the log for any discrepancies as well as what they got from Anyi. Dean really wonders about her; where the _fuck_ does she get the energy? It's just past four in the goddamn morning, and she was instructing her kids until noon yesterday before giving them the rest of the day off. "I verified every hour with HQ and Admin, and if there are mistakes, everyone's making the same ones."

"What was the sampling?" Cas asks, paging through the log and probably committing every number and misspelled word to memory.

"You're lucky you got us in the habit of reports," she answers wryly. "I took notes myself every time I checked in at HQ and debriefed the teams." Pulling out a notebook with a smug flourish, she hands it to Cas when he holds out a hand. "Sampling average got sketchy, so I had to do some guessing from what I read and saw at the entrance point, so let's go with that. I gave them 6000 for eight, and first estimate at 9:00 was about 6800 by eyeball for Ichabod and 6600 for Chitaqua, so I went with 6700. This is where it gets interesting; sampling was about one and ten for Ichabod and Chitaqua both, them with three teams, us with one. Nine to ten: 7500; ten to eleven, 8400; eleven to twelve, 9200; twelve to one, 9400, no real surprises; survey says some out of towners, but a lot of locals within forty miles of Ichabod or Harlin. I checked with Alison, and apparently at least seven local towns as of now have approached her about the big meeting."

Despite himself, Dean grins. "Mayors sent home to tell 'em to check it out?"

"Free food in the infected zone?" Amanda snorts. "I'd need a confirmed Lucifer sighting near the curry to stop me coming, just saying." She looks at Cas. "What do you think?"

"I'm not familiar enough with human celebrations--in or outside the infected zone--but Joseph said the local population is at least twenty thousand in this area," he answers slowly. "And that is only an estimate from towns who allowed him access. The upper limit could be closer to sixty thousand from the number of towns we confirmed are occupied in central Kansas."

"So far so good, right?" She nods, smile fading. "One to two, same deal, about 200 came in so up to 9600. The notes in the log, though--"

"Traffic," Cas says, and Amanda nods. "That's noted from some of those at earlier times."

"Which makes sense; there's only one road into Ichabod and four feeders that are drivable, and those mayors sent for their people around six; if all of them hit those roads, we got our first infected zone traffic jam since the run to the border when we were zoned," she answers. "Then at three, I took over HQ while Vera was at the meeting and took the reports: Chitaqua's numbers were normal and so were two of Ichabod's teams, but one was called by those guarding the barrier across Main Street, caught a pretty large group wandering up from the south acting like maybe they didn't want to be seen."

"Parking lot's north," Dean says with a frown. "For that matter, everyone does drop off at the Third Street entrance. What they say? Got lost?"

"They said the north lot was full and someone--no names of course--directed them to a spot south of town, where most of Chitaqua and the early vendors parked, in case this is relevant. Which might be true, but Anyi was surprised to hear about it and we sent out someone to ask every team who was on duty tonight about that."

"So how many people are logged as of three o'clock?" Cas asks.

"Including what turned out to be two separate groups coming from the south, one wandering innocently down Baltimore, some terribly lost people on Sixth, and what was logged at the entrance point on Third?" Amanda sits back. "Survey says around eleven thousand, two hundred."

"Sixteen _hundred people_ showed up? Between two and three?" Dean asks blankly.

"No, it's definitely more than that. When I left HQ, I gave orders to the team on duty with patrol to do a flat headcount, and Anyi gave the order for Ichabod as well. Eighteen hundred more were added when Vera got back from the meeting, and yeah, she already explained I should have been a little clearer what was going on before I left."

Dean starts to ask why she wasn't and then shakes his head, annoyed with himself. "You weren't sure?"

"I thought…" She trails off uncomfortably

"…you were being paranoid," Dean finishes for her with a sigh. "Join the club. So what were you doing just now?"

"Making sure," she answers shortly. "On my way, I talked to Han's team at the entrance point, them being better at the 'people' thing. They said something--" She hesitates. "They said the newer arrivals were way too excited about getting here, despite missing midnight toasts and everything."

"Excited?"

"They thought 'relieved' might also be a valid interpretation." She shifts restlessly in her chair. "They're bringing their kids."

"Not like there's always daycare when you want to party--" Dean starts.

"Grandma, grandpa, great-aunt Sue could watch 'em," she answers. "Except apparently they brought them, too. And creepy Cousin Fred no one likes but family, see where I'm going with this?"

Cas looks up. "Extended families."

"Exactly." She makes a face. "Look, I got curious, and since I was technically off duty…."

"Were you toilet-papering someone's house?" Dean asks curiously, biting back a grin at Amanda's glare. "Look, whatever you did--"

"It's more what I want to do now, but I think you need to see it first in case I’m--I don't know." Something in her voice makes Cas straighten and sets off every alarm that a lifetime of hunting's installed screaming in his head. "So I checked out the new south parking lot. We both did some weird hunts, so--you ever been to Disney World?"

"On a hunt? Once, yeah." He makes a note to ask her later which freaky popular animal-shaped poltergeist she got stuck with. He really thought he was used to that kind of shit, but nothing in his life prepared him for chasing down a homicidal Mickey fucking Mouse while Sam questioned his entire childhood and life choices beside him. "Why?"

"Ever make it to the parking lot?"

"Give us five minutes," Cas says into the ominous silence. "We'll meet you outside."

"Jeep's right outside," she says, getting to her feet. "I'll be there."

* * *

It takes Dean a couple of seconds to take in what he's seeing, and it's not the fact it's after four in the morning, a few degrees below freezing, and dark as all hell. He's not sure it's a relief or not that Cas has been dead silent since they got here, and Amanda, standing on his left, radiates how much she wishes this was just a matter of normal person versus hunter paranoia. 

It could be, Dean admits to himself, except for the part it's not paranoia at all.

"Holy shit." Starting ten feet from them and stretching into the darkness just south of Ichabod is what looks like every car in the world crushed together in an endless black and grey mass that seems like it goes on forever. Could be because it's night and human vision sucks. "So how far--"

"I don't know," Cas says flatly. "The curve of the earth is interfering."

Jesus fucking Christ.

"Anyi said the road into the northeast parking field is packed for a quarter mile," Amanda says softly. "She has no idea when, but they checked the engines and they weren't warm, though in this weather, that might not mean much."

He should have checked earlier, except Jesus, why would they check the _parking lot_ for fuck's sake. He's a hunter, not a goddamn parking attendant. Searching the endless, endless rows, his mind keeps getting overwhelmed by the sheer _number_. 

"Can you count how many…don't answer that," he says quickly, almost feeling Cas about to tell him, because his math tricks are like that. "Give me a minute. Everyone parked _here_ that couldn't get to the north lot?"

"No, this is--overflow, maybe, I'm not sure," Amanda answers slowly, and wait, _what_?

"Overflow."

"Yeah, uh--" She stops short, taking a deep breath before continuing. "When I saw this, I went off-road to see how far down the road to the training field it was blocked, which is all the way, including three deep beside the road. I couldn't get any closer, but the training field's surrounded on all sides for at least a quarter mile." She looks at Dean. "Dean, when me and Vera came here to get the Eldritch Horror from your jeep, it was just us and the vendors, and the road from the training field was fine. Good thing I was lazy and parked on Syracuse--you know, in case the vendors needed things moved."

"So the training field was first," Dean says slowly, and Amanda nods. "Two miles from Ichabod. Then our mystery parking attendant decided hey, let's get _closer_? How did no one at the Third Street entrance point or perimeter see anyone going south?" 

"Because they didn't use the main road into Ichabod," Cas answers distractedly, eyes unfocusing as he looks into the distance. "Just before the hill on the road that leads into Ichabod, there's a road--"

"You mean the old cattle trail thing?" Dean asks blankly. "That's not a road."

"It's _dirt_ ," Amanda confirms. "It's surrounded in brush; you can barely see it when it's _not_ covered in snow. How the hell did they even _see_ it? If it wasn't on Cas's maps, I wouldn't even have remembered it was there."

"Was?" Amanda raises an eyebrow. "Don't tell me--it's blocked?"

"Only _other_ road into Ichabod--if dirt counts, and today, it does--and it's blocked straight back to the tree line, which is as far as I could see from the jeep," Amanda says, looking at Cas, who nods distractedly. "On a guess--can't confirm since I haven't seen it yet--it's full of abandoned vehicles when no one could get into here anymore."

Dean stares at the field of cars as far as (his eyes) can see. "North lot, the training field, here…."

"Assume three to four a vehicle--and that's conservative--"

"We're at way over thirteen thousand," Dean says grimly, looking between Amanda and Cas. "So where are they?"

"All three streets south of Baltimore are either burned out or barely stable, that's why Tony red-lined everything. Seventh and Sixth are mostly red-lined, but if all you want is a roof and someplace no one would have any reason to look inside…."

"But _why_?" He stares at the ruins of fields west of Ichabod covered in cars like snow, and realizes something else. "Disney World--huge parking lot, yeah, I remember seeing it when we caught Mickey making for Epcot--don't they have _spaces_ to park in?"

"Ever think about what those yellow and white lines mean?"

He licks his lips. "I am now."

"Yeah, we just do it because that's what you do when you see a parking lot; you park between the lines. It's not like it's instinct or anything--" she breaks off, and Dean realizes she's genuinely unnerved. "Don't think about it, just glad to get a good one and hope when you leave it's not a bitch to get out."

"No one's getting out of that." There may be walking room between, but not much. "Including us."

"I don't think anyone's supposed to," Cas says softly, and that's exactly what Dean was thinking.

"So, talking to the new arrivals hasn't told us much, but I was thinking--maybe it's just we don't know the right questions so we can tell what they're lying about." Turning away, Amanda opens the back of the jeep and pulls out a backpack and slides it over her shoulder, tilting her head toward the mass of vehicles. "You up to some breaking and entering?" She pats the bag. "I keep my kit handy. For emergencies."

Despite himself, he grins at her, thinking of the trunk of the Impala. "Turn around and let me get the flashlights. Cas--"

"Bobby gave me a bottle of whiskey when I graduated to armored vehicles," he says, taking the flashlight Dean offers. "You offered a prostitute, gender unimportant."

Amanda bursts into laughter. "That doesn't surprise me."

"I'm like that," he agrees, surveying the parking lot, pick out his sampling. "We'll start with warm engines and work backward. I think I know what you were thinking. Let's find out if we're both right."

* * *

Six cars later, Dean's confirmed that there's walking space, but just barely. Currently, most of it is taken up with the contents of the trunk and backseat of an ancient station wagon, so rusty that he's not convinced there's any paint left. Sitting in the driver's seat with the door open, he watches Cas casually open a bulging suitcase, flashlight between his teeth, before he sits back on his heels as the pile of clothes erupting from inside in a froth of cotton, wool, and denim that he controls with one hand resting effortlessly on top. Just beyond him, Amanda's checking the spread of camp equipment found in the trunk, and Dean reflects these people seem to be really well prepared for people going to a party.

"Used last night," she confirms, shaking her head at the hastily-rolled tent before, unable to help herself, repacking it correctly in the case that'd they'd found on the back floorboard. "Five sleeping bags, all recently used, and two kerosene lamps, linen's still damp. Luggage?"

"Very fast packing," Cas confirms, sorting through the mess into definitive layers of t-shirts and underwear and socks, like entire drawers were dumped wholesale into the suitcase before it was zipped closed. Finishing up, Cas carefully eases it all inside again--in the original layers even, because Cas--shutting it one-handed before efficiently zipping it closed. "What about the gas?"

Dean's already half-done with a quick and dirty hotwire and lets the stutter of the engine be his answer. Straightening, he points his flashlight at the manual gauges and finding the gas, like four of the last five, stuck on empty. 

"Got another winner," he says, pulling the wires and letting it sputter itself out as he sits back in his seat, looking at the baggies of dried fruit and vegetables, beef jerky, cheese, and stale bread that he'd recovered from the backseat: homemade camping supplies, if you were the kind that went camping during an Apocalypse in the infected zone and decided to go to a party on the way home. "Plates?"

"Sharon Springs," Amanda says as she and Cas reload the trunk. "District One, western border. Four west so far."

Resting an arm on the steering wheel as he surveys the field of cars before them. "Just me, or is anyone else seeing a pattern here other than surprisingly high representation for the western border of Kansas?"

"Precautions for long trips," she offers. 

"One way trips," Cas says, leaning against a hideous orange Nova. "Gasoline supplies to the infected zone--outside deals with the border guard, of course--are very strictly rationed. A community's requisition is barely enough for local use and most of that, according to the Alliance, is used for farming. Individual use…." He shakes his head. "I assume that wouldn't be common."

Yeah, Dean was wondering about that. Getting up, he shuts the door. "Okay, one more. Cas, it's your pick this time."

"Five rows west, three north," he decides, and with a sigh, Dean heaves himself out of the station wagon. "Something in green, perhaps."

Dean gets out of the way when Cas picks a nightmarish lime-green SUV, letting Amanda and Cas pursue the manual labor portion of the strip-search. He's gotta admit, this recovering thing isn't half-bad as an excuse, mostly because Amanda takes the huge overstuffed suitcase from Cas with barely a twitch and he just can't deal with that right now.

As Cas and Amanda go through the trunk, Dean searches the front seat, finding what he's come to think of as standard rations--home dried fruit and meat, bags of nuts, slightly stale bread, chunks of semi-green cheese, plastic bottles with worn-off labels almost empty of water--then goes under the seats and in the glove compartment. It's so rote that he almost misses the crinkle when he sits back in the driver's seat, and looking down, he turns the flashlight on the space between the seats and sees a corner of paper.

Pulling it out carefully, he squints at the shitty Xerox quality, shaking it out of folds done so many times they're worn into the paper, and spreads it out on the wheel before turning the flashlight on it. The quality is just as crappy as he thought, but the dark shapes are familiar enough that he doesn't need much.

"Cas." As Cas appears beside him, he hands him the paper. "Recognize it?"

Crouching, he takes Dean's flashlight, eyes tracking down the paper and the blue eyes widen. "It's one of our maps."

"That's what I thought." God knows he's watched Cas drawing freehand maps at the kitchen table way too many mornings not to recognize his work on a glance, every line committed to memory. Looking over Cas's shoulder, memory makes it easier to differentiate the lighter shades of black, tracing out the lines of the roads almost impossible to see without knowing where they are from an undifferentiated pixelated grey background. Skimming down, he turns the flashlight on a darker blob and the more recent addition of a circle around it, obscuring the original name, but it's not like the location's a mystery: Ichabod.

Cas's eyes narrow. "Amanda, come here."

"What'd you find?" she says, but her voice cuts off as she joins them, dropping down to stare at the map. "How--Cas, I didn't give this to anyone."

"Where is it?"

"The same place I keep everything; in my trunk under salt, and I check my salt lines when I leave and come back," she answers, surprise melting into confusion. "I haven't even taken it out since we got here."

"It was probably a guess, as you're the commander here," Cas answers absently, tilting his head to give the map a dissatisfied look. "It must have been one of the visitors when you and Mark started training Ichabod's residents, and probably someone not part of the five communities we negotiated with. There's no reason otherwise."

Dean looks between them, wondering why Cas looks amused. "You wanna catch me up? How'd they get her map?"

"The more important question, in this case, is why they'd bother breaking and entering--and risking the salt lines--for something that's currently nailed to Alison's office wall and copies given to the residents on demand. That holds true for all the Alliance towns."

"You think they wanted the patrol districts?" she asks, frowning. 

"Those are on the Alliance maps, too, not just Amanda's," Dean points out, wondering what he's missing. "So why--oh. They think hers has--what--secret information we didn't share with everyone else? Do we have secret information? Do I know it?"

"I'd like to know it, too." Amanda frowns, head tipping sideways. "Nothing's on here you couldn't get from the local library--except the patrol routes--and these people don't strike me as the kind to need that."

"They would if they were trying to avoid attention if they knew what to look for and where," Dean says. "Especially if they were on the road more than one night."

Amanda's frown deepens. "Patrol would have reported that."

"Exactly. Guess they didn't figure on the blizzard, or me taking everyone off-duty." He tries to think. "And the library doesn't have the most anal mapmaker in history telling everyone to report potholes, either, much less which roads still count as 'roads' including counting--on a guess--that goddamn cattle trail. Because five thousand colors of map pencils and pens, why not color the roads based on quality."

Cas gives him a narrow look but doesn't deny it. "You can't even see the colors on this copy."

"Yeah, but you can see that cattle trail. Check it out--they marked it in just in case. Along with how to get here." Reaching down, Dean traces the thicker darkness--Christ, they must have gone blind using this--that appears on the four roads that converge on the single working road that goes into Ichabod. "This is our original, right?"

"I haven't finished with the new version from Kamal's updates during his tenure here," Cas answers, frowning. "So yes."

That's what he was hoping he'd say. "Okay, new plan," he says, nudging Cas's ankle to get him moving. Getting out, he tries to decide if he needs more confirmation or just wants it. Why not both? "Amanda, I need two teams over here to keep searching, see how many cars have these maps. How fast can you get them?"

"Let me talk to Vera first, but twenty minutes at most," she answers, pushing a loose tendril of hair off her forehead. "Sean and James should be available. They'll have to find 'em in here," she says, "but our jeeps should all have kits."

"If they don't," Cas says pleasantly, taking the backpack from Amanda, "Sheila and Frederick will be explaining the reason why to me personally when we return to Chitaqua."

"Get them out here and tell them what we're looking for," he says, holding up the map. "One team here, one for the training field. They got two hours to hit as many cars as they can and tell em to get license plates, registration, and anything else they find that might tell us something. When you're done, meet us at the north parking lot." Dean starts to dismiss her when he remembers something else. "Alicia's team--what are they doing right now?"

Amanda frowns, thinking. "Should be coming off perimeter, I think."

"Bring them with you. Also, check out the entrance point and eyeball me a headcount."

"Got it. Take my jeep, you got a longer way to go. I think there's a truck on Sycamore I can hotwire." 

Tossing him the keys, she starts to wind her way between the cars back to town, and Dean sighs, tossing them to Cas. "You have the magic night vision, fine. You drive."

"Thank you," Cas answers. "Why do we need Alicia's team?"

Dean pauses, looking at the brush and trees that Ichabod's allowed to grow wild. (He doesn't need to wonder how much Teresa had to do with assuring the convenient placement and fast growth of random vegetation.) Another defense against being found, making Ichabod despite its position on a hill invisible from any of the roads for miles--and the roads invisible to Ichabod as well. Single or barely double fucking county roads that are--on a guess--now filled with all the cars that can fit.

Cas follows his gaze, and he can see the moment he gets it. "If the roads are filled, there's no way to leave Ichabod unless on foot, even if we had access to our vehicles."

"You were right." Shoving his hands in his pockets, Dean watches his own breath freezing white in front of them. "No one's supposed to leave."

* * *

The original parking lot, in contrast, is pretty much what you'd expect of a parking lot (in a field, that is). At least at the start.

Using Seventh (Dean waves frantically out the window at the startled patrol from Icahbod as they pass), they go a couple of miles through the slowly-disappearing ruins of the eastern part of town before reaching the open pastureland northeast of Ichabod and midpoint of the roped-off parking lot. Staring there, it's easy for Dean to track the change: neat rows with plenty of space between for easy access that slowly deteriorates as they work their way north toward the lot's entrance point. 

Not a lot of single cars or trucks at first: a few minivans, vans, SUVs, and Winnebagos, all maximized for space and (probably) gas efficiency, but mostly lines of buses, from the yellow of school buses to a couple of serious Greyhounds, some mid-size charters, and--holy shit, a goddamn _Megabus_ , two stories of glory that he and Cas both explore immediately (for work related and not checking out a _two story bus_ purposes; that's just a perk). Definitely all local: gas is between three quarters and half a tank, the interior and exterior well-maintained--for value of that in the infected zone, which is pretty goddamn impressive now that he thinks about what they have to work with--seats patched and repaired, broken windows neatly taped over, cargo areas empty, but from the sight of a few stray bags and boxes he can guess which ones are also used for trade. Just peering in the windows of some confirms the obvious: the lack of luggage is a pretty good indicator that these are from the Alliance or local communities, coming by in groups for the party and drinking away the old year before drinking in the new without wasting community-owned gas.

There's no way to be sure about order of arrival, but it's not exactly hard to guess; the broken rope two thirds of the way from the midpoint to the north road entrance, the sudden number of cars and trucks--and vans and minibuses and Winnebagos, though less of 'em--start looking way too well-packed and invisible parking lines vanish into chaos. Not to mention shittier the farther he goes: shattered windshields and passenger windows permanently down or gone, and some he wouldn't have guessed could run at all from a glance at the nightmare beneath the hood. Like maybe a few weeks (days) ago they'd been rusting their way to oblivion before some frantic work to get them going if a glance at one engine with an ad-hoc repair job is anything to go by.

Surprise, surprise, those are the ones without a single drop of gas left in the tank.

Ignoring the growing headache forming behind his eyes--he doesn't have time for that shit right now--Dean walks the length of a broken down school bus, yellow paint cracked and flaking and the contrast between this one and the local versions is almost painful. Cracked, missing windows, paper and even clothing taped hastily over where the glass is missing altogether, metal floors rusted almost straight through (and making him very careful where he steps), cracked vinyl seats drooling yellowed stuffing when they aren't missing altogether between badly-packed bags, clothes, sleeping bags, and blankets scattered in drifts over the floor in the back, the occasional empty baby bottle that makes his throat tight. A glance at the front told him that heat wasn't an option, and no way would those windows have held back much of the cold. Looking at the piles of clothing and blankets in the place of missing seats, he tries not to wonder how long they were on the road when it was still snowing three days ago.

Making his way back to the front, he drops heavily in the driver's seat, reaching to unfold the worn paper taped left of the dashboard to reveal the familiar grey-black landscape and those same goddamn lines following those four roads; shitty copies of those maps Cas had carefully drawn for Amanda and the mayors when they'd first come here. Pulling it free, he stuffs it in his pocket and wipes the toner residue from his fingers onto his jeans and tries to focus on now.

"Dean," Cas says from the open door, and Dean looks at him. Same coat, same jeans, same boots, same slouch, armed to the teeth, and he remembers when seeing this was brand new, watching incredulously as Cas took on eight demons in Kansas City holding a gun in one hand and a knife in the other with the casual focus of a hunter, like he did this shit every goddamn day, and as it turns out, that's exactly what he did. Sparring with Amanda, the thing with Jeffrey, the footage from the attack on Ichabod that Dean finally got to watch, he's gotten used to it, but it hits him again now. He's not looking at an angel of the Lord, righteous rage who dispenses justice with a sword; he's looking at a hunter whose learned the hard way how his body can be as much a weapon as any gun, and to use it just as effortlessly as he'd learned to breathe.

Dean closes his eyes at his own (inevitable) reaction: _fuck_ biology, this isn't the time.

"How's the north road?" he asks, though he's pretty sure from Cas's expression he can guess. 

"Vehicles are blocking it and are parked as far as I can see down the road on the north edge of town," he answers. "They may also be in the northern fields as well, though I doubt it."

"Great." Dean gets to his feet and starts for the stairs. The wave of vertigo doesn't surprise him--he does actually get Vera was right about him taking it easy and he's running on less than seven hours in the last forty-eight at best, and that's after three previous nights of post-midnight home repair--but the fact he finds himself on his own feet and leaning against the engine instead of face first on the ground does.

Head clearing, he grins at Cas, who's watching him worriedly from only a few inches away, one arm around his waist, and thinks of what else Cas could do with those kinds of reflexes. "That was kind of hot."

Cas's eyes widen, and he blames vertigo and fucking biology; this is _not the goddamn time_.

"Start over," he states firmly, clapping Cas on the shoulder. "Thanks."

"How are you feeling?" Cas asks as he reluctantly steps back, not even pretending he'll believe anything Dean says.

"Fine," he lies, not moving from his lean against the engine. After several long seconds, the ground slams back into place under his feet, vision clearing into a view of a snowy night in the middle of a de facto parking lot. "Just tired, okay?"

Cas nods, but the worried frown deepening.

"Promise." Over Cas's shoulder, he can just make out the approach of several figures, which means that he _really_ doesn't have time for this. "Want to check my temperature?"

"Yes." Cold fingers press against his forehead, and Dean waits, not enjoying this at all, really. (What the fuck is wrong with him? Cas is just touching his forehead. Cas is _touching_ him. Fuck biology so fucking much.) "One hundred point three two."

"That's nothing," he scoffs; hallucinations aren't even on the table until one-oh-four, come on.

"I doubt it's anything to concern us unduly," Cas says reluctantly. "But cold can depress the immune system and increase susceptibility to viral infection and sleep deprivation doesn't help. You should return to bed."

"As soon as we're done," he promises, jerking his head toward the group now making their way through the cars toward him. "Cas, come on. We got shit to do."

Reluctantly, he steps back, one hand lingering on Dean's shoulder until Dean proves he can stay upright with a couple of steps. Before he can say anything, however, Amanda trots ahead, and from the expression on her face, she saw enough.

"Hey," she says, scanning him in a glance and mouth tightening; looking between her and Cas, Dean fights down another grin at the identical expressions of suppressed worry and annoyance, noting her hand twitching like maybe she wants to check his temperature, too. "Dean--"

"Fine, just tired, shit to do," he mutters before turning toward Alicia and her team. To his relief, they seem to have missed the drama that is his fucking shitty health. "First, what was the Third Street entrance point like?"

"Over fifty that I could see," she says. "And a lot I couldn't, since the lights aren't that big. They said it's over three hundred and counting."

He nods, not surprised. "Alicia, you got three hours: check all four roads that feed into the one coming into Ichabod and as far as you can get on those in that time. You'll probably have to do it on foot, so be careful. Report what you see as soon as you get back. Any questions?" Alicia shakes her head firmly. "Good. Give me a minute with Amanda and she'll drive you as far as she can, which on a guess won't be far."

Alicia nods, gesturing to her team as they go. Dean tries not to resent their easy jog when he feels like sitting down and never getting up again, but it's really goddamn hard. Amanda steps closer to the bus as Dean lets himself lean back against the engine again, face carefully expressionless until Alicia's out of sight.

"Dean, maybe you should--" she struggles for a minute. "Get some rest, okay? We can report to you and Cas at Alison's just as easily where it's warm. With blankets," she adds, in a moment of inspiration. "And coffee."

"Coffee would be nice." He takes a deep breath and almost regrets it at the razor-edge of cold air trying to freeze his lungs; oddly enough, though, that helps. "We got to get the rest of Chitaqua down here."

"If the roads are…." Amanda's expression abruptly clears as she starts to grin. "Kamal's updates to Cas's maps since we got here. Those weren't on those Xeroxes. That's why you asked if those copies were from the original"

"Got it in one," he agrees. "You tell me, how much did he get done and can we use any of it?"

"Every farm road, private road, and goddamn animal trail for fifteen miles," she confirms. "Nothing but an SUV could make most of them unless you walk 'em, though. We can use my jeep, but--"

"What about a motorcycle?" Cas asks unexpectedly. "Manuel told me that they sometimes use them on patrol, but only rarely due to gas restrictions."

She nods slowly. "Yeah, Manual showed me where they are. I can drive one, but not off-road, gonna admit that now. Which most of the drive is gonna be, one way or another."

"Leah and Mark are both competent drivers: in Leah's case, her juvenile record indicates she prefers challenging terrain and likes to win." Cas glances at him for confirmation and he nods firmly, making a note to ask Leah about that one day. "We can siphon gas from our jeeps if necessary. Tell Vera to speak to Claudia and Anyi while you get Kamal's updated map and find Mark and Leah and bring them to us at Alison's."

Amanda nods, eyes darting to Dean. "How much should Vera tell them?"

Good question: an answer would be even better. From Cas's expression, he's not getting any help there. "Everything," he decides; there's no point in having allies if they don't actually treat them like it, and hey, might as well spread out the work. "And emphasize we may be just paranoid."

"Got it." Watching her jog into the darkness, blonde ponytail bouncing behind her, he reminds himself he doesn't actually hate her. "That attack on Ichabod."

Cas nods, waiting.

"You said they didn't recognize you at first." He takes a deep breath. "The one in the daycare--I don't think he recognized me.

"They were good," he continues, breathing easier at Cas's continued lack of interest in Dean's very shitty memory of that day. "It's not like they're new at this, so how the hell could they not recognize at least one of us on sight?"

"Demon memory isn't any better than human," Cas answers. "And the time differentiation between earth and Hell doesn't help. At minimum, the last time Dean and I would have been seen by any of them--other than Jeffrey, of course--was in Kansas City, which would have been at least one hundred and sixty years in Hell. Those that survived would have been the ones who confirmed Dean's death. If no one in the daycare used your name…." He shrugs. "The demon was probably too focused on performing the ritual to notice the resemblance."

"The _resemblance_?" Belatedly, he remembers the skeletal face grinning at him from mirror and then scowls, revising that to the latest version. So he doesn't look dead anymore: big improvement, yeah, but doesn't mean much. "Yeah, I guess I look pretty different now."

Cas's serious expression cracks as he rolls his eyes. "Not that different, no, but you're different people; there's a difference in body language and how you carry yourself. Along with the lingering effects of the fever, there's enough of a physical alteration, most especially in weight, that someone who didn't know you well and relied on identification on a glance--while distracted--would make a mistake." Dean fights down the warmth from that; if Cas is lying, he really doesn't want to know. "More importantly, these are demons, not humans. Dean Winchester is supposed to be dead, and my Brother would have spread that knowledge through Hell within moments of leaving this plane, which Jeffrey confirmed."

"What are you gonna believe," Dean says deliberately, "what Lucy said or your own eyes?"

"What do you think?" Cas pauses, blue eyes distant. "You said something earlier--two plans, part of a bigger plan with more parts to come…."

"I’m really starting to hate people quoting me." 

"Be less interesting, less disturbingly accurate, or avoid baiting your soldiers," Cas answers with the ghost of a grin. "We still have no idea where the people who were infected came from."

"Demons probably grabbed an entire town or something," he answers impatiently. "No one left alive to report, though might be a question to ask some of Ichabod's out-of-area visitors, now that you mention it."

"Not an entire town," Cas says slowly, frowning. "At least…."

"What?"

Cas shakes his head. "I'm not sure. I need to check with Manuel on the casualty reports."

Okay, then. "So the people coming in….chances they're carrying Croat?" Cas raises an eyebrow. "Just spitballing here, come on. Chances?"

"I doubt it," Cas answers slowly. "Teresa's certain that the wards react to infection at an hour or when it hits threshold for the body in question, which would match my ability to sense it. Alison would have picked up guilt when she toured the ward lines checking the new arrivals. Not impossible, but….many brought their children and elderly parents with them. They wouldn't risk their lives."

"Didn't stop the people at the daycare," Dean says bitterly, and Cas seems about to say something before he simply nods. "So other than mass Croat infection, what fun things can you do with a lot of people in a given space? Just me, or is this starting to feel less like a big party and more like bait for an unthinkable kind of trap?"

Cas's eyebrows jump. "Assuming a successful sacrificial circle could even be drawn around wards created by an acolyte of the earth…."

Despite himself, he grins at the incredulity in Cas's voice as he trails off suggestively. "This is really new? Cut me some slack here: worst case scenario."

"Not that," Cas answers positively. "This is Teresa's domain and to get a circle without flaw--especially one with two rings--they'd be drawing it directly into the earth, not asphalt or cement or even a floor; the earth would notice that and therefore so would she. Further, even uncharacteristically proactive and determined demons with greater than average artistic skills would find it a challenge to draw an unbroken circle in six feet of snow around this entire town, which would require a perimeter of at least fifty miles _over hills_ to avoid most of the major obstructions in the landscape and honestly, I'm not sure the landscape itself could support it." Dean makes a face; that's a hell of a lot of miles. "People have been driving in, apparently by the thousands--" They both wince at the reminder. "In any case, while not outside the realm of possibility, it simply has far too many variables beyond their control to make the risk worth it even with the potential payoff, which I remind you still isn't guaranteed, as the full sacrifice has never been accomplished on earth. And that doesn't include the weather and the very high chance of snow in the next three days."

Dean thinks of the demons choosing that church and kind of has to agree. "Demons aren't gamblers."

Cas roll his eyes. "This is Russian roulette with an unknown number of guns and all of them loaded. They couldn't pull this off even by accident, Dean, not under these conditions."

"So--"

"That doesn't mean it's not a trap," Cas says. "However, that requires there be bait."

"Exactly." Sitting back, Dean meets Cas's eyes. "So what's the bait: the party, or the people? And for what? Or who?"

* * *

As they start back toward their jeep--which is getting steadily farther away every time Dean looks--he tries to think of anything he's missed here besides every fucking thing while he still can. The Dean Winchester of this world would have figured this out when he got to Ichabod; he'd know, not guess but _know_ what the hell was going on by now; he _lived_ this world's history that he's only listened to and has barely begun to learn, much less understand.

Dean stumbles to a stop and realizes something he should have known from the first: I can't do this. 

"Dean?"

"What the hell am I doing?" he asks, staring at the distant lights of the town. "I'm about to call Chitaqua to war and we don't even know what we're supposed to be fighting or if there's anything we can fight. If I'm wrong--"

"Then it will certainly be an excellent solution to boredom," Cas interrupts musingly. "After they arrive, we'll direct them to the alcohol while we sleep and threaten to kill anyone who disturbs us before tomorrow evening."

Dean turns to look at him incredulously. "So you have an answer to everything?"

"When in doubt, make something up," Cas says, one corner of his mouth quirking upward. "It works surprisingly well."

"And if I'm not wrong?" Dean forces his numb lips to shape the words. "I missed--Christ, I don't even know how much I missed yet! When Chitaqua gets here, they'll expect me to tell them what to do--fuck, _Manuel and Teresa_ think I know what I'm doing!"

"Dean--"

"He'd know what he was doing," Dean breathes, making himself say it. "I’m not him, Cas. I can't do this."

For what feels like years, Cas doesn't say anything; only the faint puffs of frost tell Dean he's still breathing, still and silent, and no matter how much he tries, he can't figure out what Cas is thinking right now. Disappointed, yeah, and Dean would tell him he brought it on himself, but when Cas said that he could win this that day, he'd let Cas believe it because somehow--somehow, he'd started to believe it himself.

"You're not him," Cas says finally, so quietly that if there was even a breath of wind, Dean never wouldn't have heard it. "I would have followed him anywhere he led. It was my purpose-- _he_ was my purpose; I couldn't imagine doing anything else."

It's gotta be the cold; suddenly, Dean can't seem to get a breath that doesn't feel like the slice of a knife in his guts, digging deeper with every moment that passes.

"I don't know how you could have expected anything else," Cas continues, still quiet but voice ripping with something else. "I was an angel forever--literally--and habit can be very hard to break and there was no reason to even try. What happened was impossible; how was I supposed to imagine you?"

Dean stills, breath caught in his throat. "What?"

"If I had…." Cas closes his eyes, wetting his lips before he looks at Dean again. "Two years, four months, twenty-two days--it's nothing, no time at all, a drop in eternity, but it would have been enough. I would have _made_ it enough, so I would be ready for you."

"Cas." It's barely a whisper.

"Two years is nothing," Cas repeats, taking a step toward him. "I could have done it, I could have made myself ready, but I didn't. So now is all I have, and it'll have to be enough. I Fell to fight, because this world's worth fighting for, for Dean, because he was my purpose, because that was what I was supposed to do, but you…I'll follow you anywhere, everywhere, wherever you might want to go, because I want to." Cas swallows before meeting Dean's eyes. "Do you remember when you asked me to help you in Dean's cabin that day?"

He nods blankly.

"I've been ordered, manipulated, blackmailed, compelled, forced, tortured, but you….." Cas licks his lips, looking uncertain. "You were the first to simply ask. As if I even had the right to the question."

"You do," he answers, knee-jerk. "Always."

"You asked me that day why I said yes, why I agreed to help you," Cas continues quietly. "Now you know."

Dean frantically searches for something--anything--to say to that, but when Cas starts to smile, what comes out of his mouth is, "You think this is funny?"

"It's not a log in Virginia, no," he concedes--wait, _what_?--smile widening. "Then again, the lack of toads descending at terminal velocity is definitely a plus."

Dean stares at him helplessly. "What the _hell_ is wrong with you?"

"You don't see the humor," Cas observes intelligently. "I suggest you try. Of _course_ you can do this; you're doing it right now. And I'm going to help."

"Doing _what_?" he shouts, utterly unnerved by Cas's smirk, like it's all he can do to control his pre-death hilarity. "I don't know what I'm doing!"

"Welcome to humanity," Cas answers, unimpressed. "I've only been mortal for two years, but that, I managed to figure out; what's your excuse?"

He shuts his mouth on the automatic answer; it might be the non-existent fever or something, but Cas may actually been right. "So…."

"I think we should consider delaying a pre-emptive declaration of defeat, yes. At least until we have some idea of what it is that's supposed to defeat us."

"Right." Crossing the remaining steps between them, Dean tilts Cas's face up and kisses him, tasting the shape of the smug smile before drawing back, chest tight and hoping to God this isn't some stealth feverless hallucination. "Good plan."

Cas tilts his head to rest his forehead against Dean's. "You've been an excellent teacher."

Dean takes a deep breath and nods; a thousand miles to go, and he'll have to walk every one of them before he gets to sleep. "Let's get back to Alison's."

* * *

Dean forces himself to stay upright when Cas eases him down on the edge of the bed and divests him of his coat and sweater before removing his boots and socks without attached storytime (which he kind of regrets). The house is quiet around them, the mattress inviting him to lie down beneath the warmth of the blankets, and he's so fucking tired; he can't imagine wanting anything but sleep.

First, though, maybe it's time he finally woke up. 

"I can do this." The shape of the words in his mouth is too new to be anything but awkward; it's been over four months since he said yes, and it's not much, nothing at all, and even if he'd known from the first where he'd be going, he wouldn't have been ready for this. All he has now, and it'll have to be enough.

"You can," Cas agrees without hesitation, and Dean blinks as Cas takes his boots to the chair and then looks down to see his own socked feet. "However, right now, rest isn't optional but mandatory. There's no guarantee there will be time later, and unlike me, you need it now."

"I know. You can handle it, no problem." Looking up, he sees Cas kneeling motionless on the floor, and revises that; he has Cas, and it's not 'him' that is gonna do this, it's _them_. "I'm gonna be out in about five minutes, so let's make this fast. Ready?"

"Yes." Cas sits back on his heels, the picture of obedience in repose. "What are your orders, Dean?"

"First, get off your knees," Dean says roughly. "You kneel to no one and nothing, Cas. You Fell for the right to make your own choices, and no one can take that from you."

Cas's mouth twitches before he eases to his feet and takes the space on the bed that Dean pats invitingly. "Anything else?"

"We find out what it is, fight it, and we win," Dean replies, bracing his hands on the edge of the bed until the moment of dizziness passes; he doesn't got a lot of time here, so better get this show on the road. "Let's start with getting Chitaqua down here and go from there."

* * *

He jerks awake, aware of--being shaken? "Dean?"

"Yeah," he says, blinking around the room for a moment before sitting up. Before he can figure out what's wrong--wasn't he just in the in their cabin?--the bed dips as Cas sits down. "Open your mouth."

He starts to ask why before something hard and bitter is melting on his tongue and a glass presses insistently against his lips. It's swallow or choke to death, and it's kind of obvious which choice he's gonna make here. Falling back on the bed, he stares up at the ceiling, still trying to organize his thoughts into something that makes sense--and maybe work out how to use words while he's at it--when he hears Cas say, "…didn't think to bring my entire supply, and it might be some time until they bring the rest, so this will have to do. Though honestly, I don't recommend intravenous amphetamines unless combat is imminent."

Blinking, Dean turns his head to see Cas sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him intently and speaking words he should probably know. The water helped; he can actually move his tongue now. "What?"

"Ten minutes," he says cryptically, getting to his feet. "I'll see if the coffee's ready."

Dean thinks about protesting, but Cas is already out the door, footsteps vanishing into the distance, and finally, his mind catches up and helpfully reels off exactly what's going on right now.

When Cas returns carrying the entire goddamn pot, two cups, a glass bottle of real cream (because Ichabod has real cows), and sugar, Dean's sitting up in bed, the first hard chemical rush clearing out the last of the cobwebs as Cas pours two cups: Ichabod, something's happening and they don't know what, his life, and in other news, he may just have lost any moral high ground he had left on the war on drugs as of right now.

"What and how long?" Dean asks, taking the cup; might as well start at the top.

"Thirty milligrams of D-amphetamine mixed salts," Cas tells him, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking a sip from his own cup. "You've taken that amount before without ill effect and I observed the results carefully each time. It should be sufficient for the next three to four hours. If needed, we'll repeat then."

Dean licks his lips and makes a face at the dry, gummy feel of his own tongue.

"Dry mouth is a common side effect," Cas adds as Dean finishes his cup and hands it to Cas for a refill. "It will be another ten to fifteen minutes before it reaches full strength. The temperature has been dropping since dawn and there's a very good chance of another snowstorm by tomorrow night according to Tony. Vera has requested in her capacity as Chitaqua's chief medic that to lower the risk of illness, you're to remain indoors with sufficient heat as much as possible."

At least she's being realistic. "Okay." Finishing the second cup, Dean waits for his refill. "What time is it?"

"A quarter after eleven." Cas raises an eyebrow. "You needed the rest and there was nothing to do in any case but wait. Until now, that is."

"All right," he says grudgingly, crossing his legs beneath the blankets. "Catch me up on what I missed."

* * *

Cas gives him a summary through a short breakfast of dry toast, a shower, and getting dressed in the middle of the bedroom.

"Leah and Mark will give Chitaqua the order to mobilize everyone but Chuck and three members of his choice to stay behind," Cas says as Dean pulls a heavy thermal over his t-shirt. "Chuck will close Chitaqua to everyone until you or I personally order the gates opened again."

Picking up the long sleeve shirt--not as warm as a sweater but less bulk, just in case--Dean waits long enough to jerk it over his head before snorting. "I like the part where you assume we'll survive this. Whatever this is."

"One of us," Cas corrects him, seated cross-legged at the foot of the bed. "I'm feeling ambitious, however; I'm assuming all of us will survive."

"You do that a lot these days," he observes, grabbing his boots and sitting on the nearby chair. After the first, sudden chemical rush, he doesn't think he feels any different than usual: better than usual, actually. Vera wasn't kidding about how long it would take him to get back to where he'd been before the fever, and the constant, low-grade fatigue has become so much a feature of his life that he only notices it now in its absence. Looking at Cas, he thinks now he gets it; to feel normal, maybe it was worth the price he has to pay get it, the risks involved in keeping it. 

Glancing outside at the sickly, pre-snow grey, he sighs: snowstorm tomorrow. Of course there is: he'll assume an earthquake and a few tornados just in case so he can be pleasantly surprised by something, since that's probably the only way he'll get one that's not shitty. "So back to Alicia: all four roads coming into Ichabod's road are traffic hell?"

"Yes," Cas answers, giving the window a narrow look. "Worse, the road into Ichabod is now entirely blocked, including three deep on either side of the road, as some ran out of gas waiting, or possibly became impatient and abandoned their vehicles. Tony's road crews cleared all vehicles to an eighth of a mile as of an hour ago, but their progress is slow."

"That goddamn hill," Dean says, nodding. "The four roads emptying into that one: how bad?"

"Alicia says as far as the eye can see from the point they meet the road into Ichabod," Cas confirms. "Some are also coming in on foot now who report they've been walking for two to five hours."

"Jesus." Dropping his boots on the floor, Dean grunts his way getting the first one on, only vaguely aware of Cas getting up to grab a bag from the other side of the bed. "Entrance point?"

"Over seven hundred as of thirty minutes ago," Cas answers as he spreads out what looks like most of their combined arsenal. "All the Ichabod patrol teams and anyone who's served on patrol has been called up on perimeter duty while Naresh has his subordinates and volunteers sweeping the non-occupied streets for those who entered the town secretly."

"Ichabod's council must be going crazy."

"They are, and are meeting within the next hour, which Chitaqua will probably be expected to attend," Cas says, making an already crappy day just that much shittier. "Alison will send us word; at the moment, they're still trying to assess the situation."

Pulling on his second boot, he skims Cas's choices as he lays them on the bed--appropriate for the leader of Chitaqua and his second starting their day (at noon) that may or may not end in a bloodbath by dusk in a civilian town, he assumes (not like Miss Manners is around to make the call)--he almost misses why this is out now until Cas picks up his (much more dangerous) belt. Shaking his head, he stands up and almost trips over his mostly-on right boot. "Oh hell no."

Cas tilts his head in reminder of his job title and how he should try and at least look the part.

"Fine," he says ungraciously, reaching for the belt as he stamps his feet the final quarter inch into his boot, but Cas just holds it out of reach. He considers lunging for it and tries to decide if it would be more embarrassing to fight over that goddamn belt like a pair of five year olds or do it knowing he can't do anything here but lose. "Seriously? I can arm myself."

"You can," Cas agrees, sliding the belt between his hands, and Dean can't look away from the slow stretch of leather. "I'd just prefer to do it."

Okay, then. "Sure," he manages. "Knock yourself out."

Cas smiles at him, snapping the belt before stepping closer, and Dean watches as he slides a finger through the belt loop on Dean's jeans before threading the belt through it. "Turn around," he says, meeting Dean's eyes. "Slowly."

Dean does exactly as he's told, feeling every goddamn inch of that belt before he's facing Cas again as he buckles it in place. "Do you want to carry right or left?"

"Left," Dean answers breathlessly, and Cas settles the long sheathe against his right hip. Retrieving a long knife, Cas flips it idly--holy shit, really?--before slowly sliding it into place, tilting his head at Dean's expression as he gets out the shorter steel blade, and slips it into another sheathe.

"Stand still." He stays perfectly still as Cas reaches around him, tugging the layers of sweater, shirt, and t-shirt before cool fingers slide down the bared skin at the small of his back until he reaches the edge of his jeans and attaching the sheathe carefully. "Is that comfortable?" Cas murmurs in his ear, like Dean even knows what the fuck that question means.

Though he does know the answer. "Yeah." 

"Good." When he pulls back, Dean gets a glimpse of a satisfied smile before Cas abruptly drops to his knees in front of him and Dean's mind stutters to a dead stop. "Now spread your legs."

Dean obeys without question; if Cas told him to stab himself in the face, he would have done that, too.

"Thank you." Cas smiles up at him in blue-eyed innocence as one hand coming to rest on his inner thigh just above the knee. It takes Dean several long moments of staring to recognize he's holding a thigh holster, straps dangling suggestively. 

"I noticed you generally prefer your second gun at your back," he says conversationally, like this is a conversation and not brutally effective foreplay. "However, we haven't practiced your reach back with your right when you can't feel two of your fingers and not at all with your left, so I decided to take some liberties with your usual choices, if you'll indulge me. Shoulder holster for secondary, thigh for primary: with your permission, of course."

He looks up at Dean attentively, and it occurs to him that Cas actually wants an answer to--indulging him. "Yeah, I'm okay with that."

It's a mistake and he doesn't care. "Excellent." He watches as Cas slowly positions it on his thigh before buckling each strap into place, and it occurs to him that this kind of skillset is the kind you get from practice and a lot of it. He remembers the way Cas smiled when he said some of his partners didn't disarm even for sex and wonders at what point that went from theoretically hot to trying to work out when he can request that. Like the first time they actually get around to having sex, and what's wrong with now? They're both armed.

"I requested all of Chitaqua's soldiers be released from duty for the next hour and a half so we can meet with them," Cas is saying and Dean nods along, trying to work out logistics--drop into Cas's lap? Get him onto the bed somehow?--when he's interrupted by a knock on the door by someone who's gonna die like in five seconds.

"That would be Vera," Cas says, buckling the last strap into place and standing up to survey the remaining weapons thoughtfully. "We'd better hurry this along."

"Yeah," Dean answers intelligently, watching Cas pick up the shoulder holster and imagines what he could do with that thing: bed or floor, bed or floor or wall, he's not all that picky and killing people can be for later. "I'm okay with that."

* * *

Cas meant meeting with his soldiers, right. 

The sudden attention as they enter Chitaqua's HQ stops Dean short just inside the door, faces turned toward him in relief and curiosity as they all get to their feet (why?). At some point, his brave soldiers raided the ruins of the suburbs, so a plethora of mismatched chairs, couches, and tables have been added to the room, Cas's map of Kansas' existing highway system, a map of Ichabod, another with Ichabod's various patrol routes, and one with an overview of those of the Alliance are hung on the wall, and already paper is colonizing every surface, as well as--fuck his life, _laptops_. Because Ichabod was founded by programmers and it may be the end of the world but that's no reason to abandon the digital age. 

And everyone…is still standing.

"As you were," Cas says from behind him, shutting the door (and cutting off escape) before giving him a push forward as everyone takes their seats with expectant looks. Dean realizes the table with the most paper is probably their destination, it being the where all the new furniture is facing (and location of all the maps). Joe, perched on the arm of the couch closest to the table, looks at him soberly, but the brown eyes dance like maybe he's enjoying Dean's blank stare a little too much.

Rolling his eyes, Dean manages to reach the table--once belonging to a fairly classy dining room if he knows his hardwoods--and picks up the top piece of paper from one of the stacks. A report: of course it is. Turning around, he watches incredulously as his entire population of soldiers _take out notebooks_. A glance at Cas's satisfied smirk as he drops in the chair to the right of the table is enough to make him fight back a smile.

"All right," he says, leaning back against the table and trying to look like their leader (ie, what he actually is) as Vera takes her seat between Joe and Amanda. "Cas and Vera briefed me, but I'd like more detail. Amanda, you're up."

Amanda's smirk is there and gone as she gets to her feet.

"Ichabod's and Chitaqua's patrol established a soft perimeter from Syracuse to Fourth Street as of two hours ago and should have Fifth in the hour when Naresh's teams finish sweeping. Alison's at Admin with Claudia, Tony, and Manuel getting the panicked council together. Alison called an emergency meeting, should start in about--oh five minutes," she reports. 

"Who's running patrol right now?"

"Teresa, while Manuel's at the meeting," she answers. "She's checking the wards and seeing if we can make that soft perimeter a hard line and finish sweeping potentially collapsing buildings for outliers. Spoiler: we're gonna be formally asked by Ichabod, one Alliance member to another, to help out, either on patrol or help with the influx of people coming in."

"I already unofficially said yes," Cas adds, and Dean turns slightly to see him leaning back in his chair, one boot braced on the edge of the table and reading through the stack of reports at light speed. He looks up, pushing his hair out of his eyes to give Dean the most solemn look in history. "Alison seemed stressed."

"You think?" Dean turns his attention back to Amanda. "Update Vera and Joe on what they needs to know after we're done; they're gonna be Chitaqua's official liaisons to Ichabod and the Alliance for the rest of whatever this is."

"I am?" Vera asks in bewilderment on top of Joe's, "We are?"

"Yep, have fun with that. Anything else?" Amanda shakes her head, and he doesn't miss the relief on her face; she never struck him as someone interested in politics, and on a guess, dealing with this is gonna include that. "Who's next?"

"Alicia," Amanda says cheerfully, sitting down, and Dean watches Alicia bounce to her feet, practically crackling with energy; it's exhausting just looking at her and it's not like she got any sleep last night.

"My team and James' just finished all semi-roads on Kamal's map up to five miles," she reports, almost vibrating in place. "All clear on the northern, eastern, and western front, but that's only because they don't go far and sometimes are made of snowy dirt. I also checked in with Walter, and the road into Ichabod is pretty much all dead cars, all the time, all the way to the four roads that feed into it and several miles up those. They're clearing them off the road, but it's slow going, especially since the side of the roads were apparently a-okay for parking for some people."

Dean lets out a breath. "So we're at foot traffic only."

"Only way to travel, I say, but only when you don't have a choice and are wearing sensible shoes," Alicia agrees. "Anyi ordered Ichabod's patrol to headcount like we are, and the estimate is about three to three-fifty an hour are coming in, and we can be sure of that because half of Ichabod's doing perimeter. Nothing coming from the northeast, east, or south anymore, but I checked our maps; north and east are all wildlife all the time, and it'd be twenty miles plus over terra incognita to get here from the south due to roads being terrible or sometimes replaced by very long, very deep holes in the ground unless you happen to have Kamal's maps and can see through snow, which I'd like that superpower like a lot. Pretty much the only way in is from the west and those four roads unless you're SUV or maybe dirtbikes and all off-road, all the time."

"And those are a fifteen mile and counting traffic jam," he says. "That's a hell of a walk."

"The ones coming in now aren't in great shape," Alicia continues, expression darkening "Dolores is opening a second infirmary for the ones that need treatment on Third, since that's the official and only entry point. Mostly frostburn and exhaustion, nothing too serious yet."

"It's still early." Rubbing his eyes, he tries to think. "Where are they being housed anyway? Third?"

Alicia's serious expression cracks, just a little. "Not as long as anyone has floor space to offer. Alison didn't even need to ask; we got residents waiting inside the wards for patrol to clear everyone who crosses over to take 'em home for breakfast and some sleep. Alison ordered a general mess to be opened on eastern Third in an old restaurant." Her eyes flicker to Cas briefly. "They have three commercial ranges that can handle seven different temperature settings at the same time, eight ovens, and four industrial coffee makers the likes of which cannot be described but witnessed. In case that's relevant, for I want to be thorough and so toured it myself for official purposes."

Dean doesn't even need to look to know Cas is making a mental note to check out Ichabod's mess like soon.

"Tony's got city services getting more of the buildings on Third through Fifth opened up and ready for temporary residency," she continues. "Everything marked white is priority--safe, just needs some drywall or curtains or whatever--but he's sent a group to check everything not marked red, since all those are at least structurally sound and won't collapse on top of anyone. He says should be open for business by tomorrow."

"He thinks he can do that in a day or two?"

"As sure as snow's coming tomorrow night," she answers soberly. "Can't make the weather stay away from the people, so better idea: get the people out of the weather before it gets here. They don't know if they can get the grid up to Fifth for full heat, but four walls and a roof, that he can do. Volunteers are collecting extra coats, sleeping bags, tents, blankets, you name it right now."

"Dean," Nate says unexpectedly from three rows back, sandwiched between Mira and James, "requesting--uh, permission to speak?"

"Oh God," Dean says blankly. "Go ahead, and--for the record, just talk. I'll tell you to shut up."

"Right." Nate takes a deep breath. "I'd like to help Tony and his crew with getting the buildings habitable."

He notes that James is trying very hard not to grin and nudging Nate with his knee hard enough to almost push the guy off balance. "So you know a little more than drywalling and hole-digging and drafting?"

Nate makes an effort to sink into his chair, but Mira does something Dean can't quite see that makes him straighten so fast he guesses it must have hurt a lot. "A little, yeah."

"Dude, Tony's gonna want to know a little more than that," Dean lies through his teeth; this is maybe the most words he's ever heard Nate speak in a group greater than (maybe) Zack and fine, he's curious how the least likely candidate for construction skills he's ever seen picked those up.

"I was on a crew that repaired buildings for a few years," Nate answers warily. "My first--only job, I guess, after I moved to San Jose. I learned a lot."

"He worked on the Winchester Mystery House!" James bursts out excitedly, and Nate closes his eyes, flushing. Elbowing Nate in the ribs (Dean winces on Nate's behalf), he adds, "Dude, tell them! He _saw things_ …."

Cas slowly lowers the reports. "Winchester House in San Jose, California? _That_ house?"

Nate stares at Cas before a nudge from James gets his head moving in a jerky nod.

"What is 'few' in years?"

There's a fraught moment where no one's sure when Nate will realize this will take words. "Four. I think."

Cas's eyebrows jump in what Dean thinks is 'utter shock'. "Cas?" he asks, because this is fun and all but information would be helpful. "What? It's a crazy maybe-haunted house."

"It's not a house," Cas says. "Winchester House was constructed specifically to create conditions favorable for a localized spatial anomaly, which would facilitate the creation of a dimensional rift." Dean looks his 'what'. "The designer opened spacetime through several dimensions like someone with the equivalent of a pair of dull scissors cutting several layers of very thick fabric." Scissors? "Fortunately, he became lost during an inspection--eaten, I assume--"

"Winchester Mystery House eats people?" Dean asks in horror; that was _not_ on the website.

"I wouldn't say 'eaten'," Nate offers uncertainly. "Some of them are still there, kind of. Sometimes more of them than there was before."

"I know," Cas admits, pained. "But there really isn't a word that applies unless you--reverse defecation, perhaps--"

"Eaten," Dean interrupts when Nate looks dangerously close to nodding, and he wants to go back and kick himself for even asking. "It eats people, cool."

"Just ones it doesn't like," Nate says reassuringly.

"And even for a willing agent of the Old Ones, the designer was very unpleasant," Cas confirms. "In any case, his very timely consumption meant that Winchester House was never completed, but as happens when one indulges in mystical cosmic horror without knowing what you're doing, Winchester House developed sentience and one assumes sapience as well. Which is fortunate in this case; currently, it acts as a living--for several contradictory values of 'living'--seal over the dimensional tear and substantially lowers the risk of several dimensions pouring into each other in an uncontrolled manner and destroying a significant portion of spacetime."

Everyone nods, Dean included; yeah, no one wants…spacetime destroyed, Christ. 

Cas looks at Nate curiously. "I've been meaning to ask someone who's worked on the various attempts at restoration; how can you repair buildings that aren't buildings and even when they are don't have any relation to this universe's physics or even know what physics is? Two thirds of it doesn't even exist in this universe, and the rest tends to…drift."

"You keep trying when it's here, and when it's not, wait for it to get back to try again," Nate explains diffidently. "And someone asks where you've been for the last three days after a couple of hours priming a room for a fresh paint job, you roll with it. It happens, you deal. Mostly, no one notices."

"Nate, when you said 'four years, I think', what does that mean?" Dean asks before he can stop himself or remember what they should be talking about here.

Nate makes a face and looks at Cas hopefully, who makes holy shit _the same goddamn face_. "The laws of nature and physics are immutable, but Winchester House doesn't know what those are or care because--in a sense--it can't and still exist and ignorance is bliss and a beautifully intact dimension. In those circumstances, even humans with a very good sense of time tend to--lapse. Nate could have easily spent several hundred years painting a wall if the wall was careful not to be obvious about expanding and he was sufficiently distracted."

"Distracted for a hundred years by _painting_?"

"I'd take breaks," Nate says uncertainly. "Go for a walk, check out the other rooms. It liked showing me around, and there was a lot to show. You'd be surprised how much."

"I wouldn't," Cas says, underlining how much this conversation went somewhere Dean's not sure anyone saw coming at any point in their lives. "How many floors did you discover?"

Nate thinks for a minute. "Maybe sixteen, but could be twenty or thirty. Parallel stairs make things weird and they'd go backward sometimes. It got easier when I explained numbers to it; it didn't know about organizing things like that, thought it was pretty cool."

"He never got lost," Mira says, punctuating that with adamant nodding. "Never. Always got exactly where he wanted to go."

Nate wrinkles his nose. "As long as I was clear about that, yeah. One day, though, went in the front door straight into the attic. My fault: I was distracted by top floor being…sort of half not there, and it was distracted by--something, not sure. It brought it back when I--uh." His eyes unfocus. "There were these giant windows, even the ceiling was windows, and outside it was…." 

"Nate?"

He shakes himself. "Then we were back in the room I was painting before and--it was really upset. I never worked out what was up with that. I think it didn't like me so close to the windows or something, never did explain."

"It must have liked you," Cas says into the silence, voice soft.

"It thought it was made wrong," Nate says, staring at the back of the chair in front of him and Dean notes Zack staring at Nate from a few feet away with an expression you'd have to be blind to miss. "There was nothing wrong with it. It--it just needed a few repairs, and it's not like it was hard to do them once it showed me how to see them. Once a room was fixed, it stayed put, and it really liked that, didn't have to--you know, chase them down anymore." He starts to smile, and Dean tries to remember if Nate's ever looked quite that happy before. 

"The rooms stayed when you were done fixing them?" Cas says curiously.

"Yeah," Nate confirms, and Dean gets the feeling this conversation could use something, like--something. "Then tourists could come in and talk about how cool and weird it was and it loved hearing that."

Cas tilts his head. "It liked being a house."

"It's really into it, yeah," Nate agrees. "We had a lot of fun."

So qualifications: can fix cosmic entities who like to be houses.

"Talk to Dennis after we're done," Dean says, adding when James opens his mouth and Mira looks like she wants to, "Yeah, until your next shift on perimeter duty you can go, too. That goes for everyone," he adds, raising his voice. "If you got time, see if anyone in Ichabod needs some help. The should have somewhere for volunteers to go soon." 

Satisfied by the nods, he looks at Alicia again. "Question--we got anything else on why people are coming here or is everyone still claiming big party?"

"Not many in any shape to talk," Alicia says. "A little here and there about some trader telling them something about something, but everyone's got a different story. A lot of them are barely on their feet. Priority is getting everyone warmed up and fed."

"Good."

"Whatever it is, it's not literally chasing them down, if that helps. Five members of Ichabod's patrol were sent out at dawn--gotta learn to ride a motorcycle, can we add that to hunter curriculum?--and they got about thirty miles out and nothing. They all know what to look for, and Manuel and Teresa reviewed them before they left." 

"So far so good." Alicia bites her lip, shifting in place. "What?"

"A few of those coming in--they said some things, might explain why no one wants to talk." She takes a deep breath, bracing herself. "Anyi's worried this might be the military coming back for sloppy seconds."

"Son of a bitch," Joe snarls, falling back in his seat on the couch. Startled, Dean glances at Cas, who doesn't seem surprised. "If they're driving people out of their homes…"

"Worse if they aren't," James says, looking worried, and Dean wonders what he's missing.

"Where are the presumed military coming from?" Cas asks.

"Pick a direction," she answers, crossing her arms. "North, South, East, West, Heaven, Hell--not that I judge--you name it. Just one of the stories going around, but gotta say, I prefer my monsters not carry bazookas."

"East is the only border that has a strong military presence due to Missouri being uninfected," Cas says, still frowning. "We're bordered on three sides by zoned states; the civilian border guards are considered sufficient between the zones. There's no reason for the military to be crossing from those zones, and if they'd come from the east, Checkpoint Three would have warned us."

"Larry would have," Joe confirms. "The bonus we'd give for that would pay off his Mercedes."

"Germany's exporting again?" Vera asks, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Nope, so you can guess what a late model--as in, less than three years old--anything goes for these days."

"We do pay very well," Cas says neutrally, and Dean sees them exchange a speaking look that reminds Dean that Cas has been questioning Joe about the last few years of transactions, though he's not clear on what Cas is looking for (and is pretty sure Cas doesn't either). "Even excluding the venality of the border guards, it's very doubtful this is due to military action. At least, authorized military action."

Well, at least they didn't have time to be relieved. 

"Just for the record," Dean starts. "New Year's Day or the days after, anything…?"

"New Year's Day as practiced now is a human construction and it varies by the society that created it," he answers, making a slight adjustment in the angle of his slump. "It has no particular meaning other than ceremonial and only to humans."

Yeah, couldn't be that (possibly horrifyingly) easy. "Okay, anybody else?"

"I'll oversee patrol while you meet with the town council and set up the perimeter shift schedule," Cas says lazily, setting down the finished reports and wrinkling his nose at Dean's surprise. "If I'm correct, they will request your presence fairly soon to get our official agreement to help Ichabod."

Oh God. "But--"

"Joseph and Vera will accompany you," Cas adds. "Amanda, Kamal, your assistance with patrol would be welcome, if you don't have any duties in Ichabod at this time."

"I suspended class so they could help out with the influx," Amanda says, and Kamal nods.

"Amanda, you're with Cas today," Dean says, looking around the room. "Anything else?" There's general shaking heads, so he takes that as no. "Dismissed. Joe, Vera, Amanda, Kamal, stick around. We got a few things to go over."

"Mind if we get some coffee?" Amanda says plaintively as everyone leaves. "Check out the new mess maybe?"

"Get me some as well," Cas says immediately.

"Me, too." Dean waits until the room is empty before turning to Cas. "What was that about the military?"

Cas makes a face. "We don't have any proof, so this is more--educated speculation, if you will."

"Fine, what's the 'educated speculation' then?"

"The initial efforts at zoning were--not entirely about creating zones. At least, Dean didn't think so and Joseph's interaction with the border guards has led him to the same conclusion. Kansas was the third of the first three infected states and the second in the Midwest, which they might have considered--acceptable casualties."

"Acceptable as in letting everyone inside 'em die of Croat?" Not a surprise: that would explain why the zones have existed for two goddamn years and counting.

"Not exactly, though that would probably have been the official verdict." Cas wets his lips before looking at Dean. "We think the zones were supposed to be short term isolation procedures set in place to enable full-scale eradication of the threat without inconvenient oversight."

Dean starts to nod before it hits him. "Getting rid of Croat by killing _everyone_ inside the zones? Whether they were infected or not?"

"Yes." Cas hesitates "The cities were impossible to control without full scale bombing--which as you know was recently attempted as well--but at the time, that didn't seem to be an option. Instead, a perimeter was established around the major cities that held well enough to avoid contagion spreading, at least for long enough for their purposes."

"Which would be…."

"Mid-size cities--those large enough to host a threat but small enough to be less interesting to the media--would have been targeted first. I'm fairly certain that Ichabod's predecessor--whatever it was named then--was among those selected for first strike to eliminate even the potential for infection spreading."

"They killed everyone in them." Suddenly, Cas's maps make a lot more sense: the destroyed roads.

"Dean thought--and Joseph agrees--that the eventual plan was to eliminate the population and blame the cities for the spread of infection and subsequent deaths as long as they were standing," Cas says. "Once everyone in the zone was dead, the cities could be declared unsalvageable and destroyed without anyone wondering at the death toll or protesting the destruction."

"So Waterville…."

"Might have had an actual reason to fire on people in military-looking vehicles, yes," Cas answers. "Though considering the distance between them and any mid-size city, the state of interstate communication, and the fact this wasn't exactly advertised, I tend to err on the side of them being simply homicidal."

"So why didn't they finish trying to break records in mass murder of civilians?" Dean asks bitterly. 

"They didn't have time," Cas answers, mouth quirking. "A month after Kansas was zoned, North and South Dakota as well as Tennessee were confirmed to have active Croatoan epidemics in progress and had to be zoned within a few weeks of each other, and there was far too much attention on the Midwest. With only three states, it might have been possible to avoid questions--or rather, once the threat was eliminated, no one would particularly care--but a six state massacre would have been impossible to hide, especially with two of those states in the South. Not to mention the number of personnel required, and not entirely surprisingly--though from what I understand, this was something of a shock to those involved in the original plan--the vast majority of the armed forces isn't comfortable with firing on civilians, including children, on domestic soil."

Dean takes a deep breath; none of this should surprise him, but somehow, it still does. "Why didn't you say anything before?"

"For one, there wasn't evidence, simply--guesses," Cas answers. "For another, most of the information has only just come into our hands or been able to confirm. Joseph's only recently been authorized to get more information on the state of the world, and he naturally concluded that would include whatever might relate to the infected zone." Read: Dean the former didn't give a shit and never followed up, got it. "His relationship with the supervisor of Checkpoint Three has allowed him much more unsupervised access to their computer systems and time to use it, as well as some amount of interaction with other members of the border staff." 

Dean starts to nod, but Cas's expression tells him that's not all. "And?"

"I forgot." At Dean's disbelieving stare, Cas rolls his eyes. "I mean, that you didn't know it. That you _couldn't_ know."

"Because Dean knew?" he says as neutrally as possible. They're two different people, Cas said, that's how he sees them, and…he doesn't know where he was going with that but he thinks he needs to stop.

"That would make sense," Cas answers wryly. "No, not that. It's…you're doing very well, I suppose. Even I sometimes forget you haven't been here all along."

"Oh." He hopes the sudden heat coming from his face is a fever. He's okay with that. "So--wait, you think Ichabod was one of those towns they destroyed?"

"When I toured Ichabod, I noticed the destruction was confined to the eastern side of town; that was newer construction, almost entirely new neighborhoods, while downtown was mostly commercial," Cas confirms. "A simple Croatoan epidemic wouldn't have been so selective and there is also the fact Croats tend to be uninterested in explosives. Ana verified there are signs that they were used in the east side of town and thinks the reason any of the east side of town is still standing is that, somehow, some must have failed."

Dean takes a deep breath. "Were the houses that were still standing ever checked?"

"Alison verified they did soon after they got the lights on," he answers. "In the intact homes, bodies were found, sometimes still in their beds, and while decomposition makes it impossible to verify cause of death, bullet holes were present in the walls."

"Hiding the massacre," Dean says softly. "What do you want to bet there wasn't a case of Croat here at all before they started firing?"

"I wouldn't bet against it," Cas answers soberly. "One of the reasons that Ichabod probably didn't get any attention from the units stationed in Wichita is that they might not have known it ever existed. The units we were acquainted with were assigned here after our arrival, and if they weren't told….."

"Mass murder plan failed, so cover your ass and send in people who don't know what happened," Dean says flatly, now understanding why Alison wouldn't tell him the town's name before they renamed it. "No charges were found downtown?"

"No. Ana's checked twice and taught two of Ichabod's residents as well so they could help," he answers. "Either they planned to come back and finish later and were stopped by the zoning of North and South Dakota--which is possible--or…."

"Or what? Someone removed the charges?" 

The door abruptly opens, followed by cheerful voice, and Dean sighs, pretending he doesn't see the relieved look on Cas's face and files it away for later as well. 

"Took you long enough," he says (after Amanda gives him his coffee). "All right, let's get started. Cas, you got the shift schedule…" Cas boots the laptop and Dean notes the red drive already plugged in because of course it is. "Stupid question. All right, let's figure out how to do this."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you on the 27th! And thank you.

_\--Day 151, continued--_

Between meeting with each incoming and outgoing team on perimeter duty and tracking their volunteer activities, Castiel requests--and receives--all the available data regarding the new arrivals collected by Ichabod's patrol as well as Chitaqua's. If nothing else, it gives him something to do, since it's probably not advisable for him to be at the patrol line with so many unfamiliar people.

Anyi delivers the reports personally to their headquarters an hour and a half past noon with an exaggerated sigh, dropping in the only other chair in the quiet second-floor room Castiel colonized to keep their reports (and his Ichabod-provided laptop). 

"Only came on duty at noon and I'm already exhausted," she says with a sigh as he sorts through the box, stacking the reports--if they can be called thus with no standard formatting and sometimes scribbled on notebook paper--in separate piles for Chitaqua and Ichabod sorted by what may or may not be time (some seem to lack proper headers as well). To his surprise, there are three folders at the bottom filled with neatly printed sheets. "From the attack a few weeks ago," Anyi explains as he skims through them. "Teresa said you wanted them."

"Tell her thank you," he says, setting the empty box on the floor and leaning back against the desk. "What's the status at the entrance point?"

"Ridiculous. I'm getting nostalgic," she answers, sprawling out before pushing the fringe of dust-streaked black hair from her face and muttering a colorful assessment of her life and choices in Cantonese before switching back to English. "Monsters--you fight, survive, get a snack, go to bed. This--all the tedium of anticipating an attack but no payoff of a life and death struggle. Plus, crying babies. Compared to the patrol line right now, the daycare was practically quiet."

"How is Sera today?" Sera was one of the orphaned children of the human infiltrators, and at just over three years old, she's adjusting very well to the abrupt changes in her life. From what Alison told him, she is one of those who will be released to their adoptive parents in the next few weeks.

She smiles at him, face lighting up. "Great. Better than great, actually. Glenn and Serafina are letting me take her home tonight after my shift. I mean, it's not official yet, but the daycare needs the space right now, and Sera's spent a couple of hours there every day for the last week and even helped decorate her new room. If Sera's okay with it, they said no reason to wait." 

"Congratulations," he says, returning her smile. "It sounds very exciting."

"She'll be the third kid in my building, so everyone's excited," Anyi says happily. "I left word with Anthi, so there'll definitely be a party tonight." With a sigh, she gets reluctantly to her feet. "I better get back out there. We're starting to get fights among those coming in, and Naresh already has two teams helping us keep everything under control."

"Good luck," he tells her sincerely as she leaves, remembering suddenly he hasn't eaten yet and the mess is a possibility for that. It also, he remembers from what Vera gave him, has excellent coffee. In any case, he should go see what it's like; perhaps it will give him some ideas for the one they're building in Chitaqua.

* * *

The new mess is a block east from last night's gambling den, the former bank where new arrivals are beginning to be sent for assistance and potential medical treatment before being claimed by a resident. A good choice, he thinks, looking at the sprawl of a once-elegantly modern two story building that was converted to restaurant on its lower floor, all metal and glass between restored nineteenth-century brickwork. The original town was ideally situated on the highway for the inevitable urban flight from fast-growing Wichita, companies buying up the old downtown to create the fantasy of rural small-town life while a more modern proto-city was being born on the eastern side of town, neighborhoods being built on speculation for the growing upper middle class.

Though the Apocalypse made the economic viability of life lived in urban versus suburban centers with commute irrelevant, the leftover construction equipment from half-finished mid-rise buildings and new row housing proved extremely useful to Tony and the city services crews (after they learned to use it, at least). Their efforts were by general consensus concentrated on larger buildings to promote high-density housing for both mutual self-defense as well as cultural preference. Many of the contractors who were in the country on work visas came from cultures that encouraged multi-generational residences, and Tony, Alison, and Teresa and Manuel came from extremely extended families who lived with or very near each other and had for generations.

Waiting for the trickle of people entering and exiting to slow, he crosses the street, easing by a couple talking on the sidewalk without eliciting their attention, and opening the newly-installed solid wooden doors that replaced the empty metal frames that once held glass. Pausing just inside, he takes in the trestle tables and chairs set up on either side of a wide aisle leading to the door he assumes opens into the kitchen. 

Many of the tables are already occupied with the exhausted new arrivals, children held on laps or in carriers at their feet, older ones seated with unnatural quiet by their presumptive families. The general sense of exhaustion and combined fear and relief are unmistakable, but patrol has yet to get any consistency on the reason for their exodus to Ichabod. In some cases, it's deliberate--or deliberate silence--but the rest…he's not sure. 

The reports may provide some clue as to what's happening, but the possibility that the military has returned to Kansas and is causing people to flee their homes concerns him. At this late date, subtlety would be impossible, but the annihilation of Houston wasn't subtle in any sense of the word. He finds himself thinking more and more about America's massive nuclear arsenal and the possibility that turning the entire Midwest into a nuclear wasteland may now be on the table.

(In which case, Dean's morbid ponderings on humanity regressing to the Bronze Age would become something on the order of best case scenario. Which he doesn't think Dean would benefit from hearing and just as importantly, Castiel having to listen to Dean speculate gloomily on if they'll all be mutants with a non-standard number of fingers. The sheepapodes were traumatizing enough and Alison was wondering just yesterday if they mated in groups or not. (They decided their sheer horror meant the answer was yes, of course.))

Searching the room (and firmly relegating the mating habits of the mythical sheepapus to the back of his mind), he locates a long set of trestle tables lined end to end at the right side of the room and draped with several tablecloths. On either end are stacks of plates and bowls as well as rows of glasses and cups, bookending an array of containers from large plastic and metal pitchers for drinks to various pots, platters, and baskets filled with food.

The distraction of the other people assures no excess attention is paid to him as he makes his way to the trestle tables and surveys the variety on offer. Most, he suspects from newly-acquired expertise in food preparation as well as observation of the mess, are items that can either be prepared swiftly and easily or that the residents generally keep on hand in sufficient quantities for consumption over several days. Both leavened and unleavened breads abound--brown wheat, challah, sourdough, even a dark rye, and a wide variety of flatbreads that include naan, paratha, chapatti, bazlama, pita, tortillas, and to his surprise, cornbread (he hasn't seen that since he lived south of the Mason-Dixon). Beside them is a selection of jams and jellies, chutneys, various yogurts, cottage cheese (he thinks), and butter as well three slightly battered but fully functional toasters. Several large bowls contain dried fruit, nuts, and sliced vegetables both raw and cooked in various combinations, and exploration of the various pots reveals oatmeal, rice, a vegetable curry, an intriguing green pepper, onion and potato mixture, and several types of beans.

As he replaces the lids to conserve the heat, he thinks wistfully that he should develop a taste for food soon; appreciating it in theory is well and good, but he suspects his culinary efforts will not progress much further without at least some level of enjoyment of the final product.

Midpoint on the left side he finds what he's looking for: four industrial coffee-makers of a size to elicit lust in all who behold them with a selection of coffee cups and mugs of various sizes along with a large electric kettle beside baskets of teabags both commercial and locally-made. Obviously, whoever put this together had their priorities very much in order. Selecting a large mug, he fills it with coffee from the nearest one not labeled 'decaffeinated' (for humanity's ways are strange, sometimes incomprehensible, and on occasion very, very wrong). A little farther down the table is sugar--a great deal of it--and containers of off-white powdered creamer as well as three intriguing metal cylinders labeled 'cream' and 'milk' and something known as 'half-in-half'.

"Depends on if you like the taste of cream," a familiar voice says, and he looks up to see Haruhi grinning at him from the other side of the trestle table, black hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. Setting down another basket of tea--green, he notes, though in small, individual plastic bags that indicate these were grown locally--she gestures to the cylinders. "While all come from the same cow-substance, the taste is different. And completely different from powdered, which has nothing to do with cows no matter what anyone tells you."

"I thought dairy products were rationed," he says, noting the plastic bin of sliced cheese she's placing near the bread. "Unless one qualifies as a child, pregnant woman, injured or recovering from illness, or elderly."

"Did you just quote Lanak?" He nods, feeling daring and adding a small amount of half-and-half. "Sounded familiar. Every adult in town donated their two week entitlement, so we got butter and cheese, too," she says, watching him taste the coffee and make a face. "Rule of thumb: relative to skin color."

"What?"

"Well, you're--kind of pale," she says with a frown, cocking her head. "Probably wouldn't help, unless you really like your coffee super creamy. Derek's coffee is me, late summer after a few weeks in the fields. Delicately golden-brown and kissed by the summer sun." 

Castiel looks at her over the rim of his cup, now recognizing the general purpose of such a florid construction. "Did that work?"

"I'm sorry to say that it did," she admits, leaning a hip against the table. "It helped that it was said after a terrible attempt at probably-yakitori and maybe-miso soup, I'm just guessing here. Claudia told me he got the recipes from a library book, which I think was written by aliens or people that hate food or Americans or something. It was so bad, but I ate every bite." He nods encouragingly. "He also spent six weeks previous to this trying to learn Japanese from tapes that Walter found for him to impress me over dinner and sure, that wasn't Japanese--I'm not sure what it was--I grade for effort and that was a lot of effort." Her eyes narrow speculatively. "Fair's fair--Dean? Even Amanda doesn't know, and she knows everything."

"Not everything, but most of it, yes." He adds more half-and-half, tastes again, then milk until the color matches his memory of Dean's always-flawless efforts in coffee preparation and takes a wary drink. There is definitely a difference in the flavor, not unpleasant, but that could also be because he's used to powdered creamer. "Coffee."

Her eyebrows jump. "Coffee?"

"He made me coffee."

Haruhi tilts her head. "Must have been good coffee."

"Very good coffee," he says. "I didn't even realize that it was exactly what I wanted, and yet, upon tasting it, it was as if it were the thing that had been missing from my life and I just didn't know it. Also, he's preternaturally attractive, which I'm sure you've noticed."

"Not something you can miss," she agrees. "I like Derek for his mind and everything, but the package it comes in is--wow. He's growing out his hair, you know, and every time Claudia locks it, just--it does things to me."

He nods sincere agreement, then pauses, focusing on a recalcitrant strand of his own hair impeding his vision for want of a pair of constantly misplaced scissors and finds himself wondering exactly how those scissors keep getting misplaced. Dismissing that for later rumination, he returns his attention to Haruhi. "I'm sorry that your training was suspended. I was looking forward to observing in the mornings while I was here."

She brightens. "Amanda promised us we'd get to watch you and her spar."

"I don't remember agreeing to that when she asked me to observe," he notes, taking another drink.

"Then I probably shouldn't have said that," Haruhi agrees cheerfully. "Pretend you didn't hear it?"

"Why," he asks, fighting back a smile, "do I feel like I'm being manipulated?"

"No idea." At the sound of someone calling her name, she grimaces. "My shift ends in an hour. I can bring lunch to Chitaqua Headquarters, maybe help you out? Be right back," she says at a second, more annoyed call. "I'll explain my reasons, and they're very persuasive."

"All right," he tells her retreating back, taking another drink and just missing being thrown against the table when someone knocks into him.

"Move, would you?" an unpleasant male voice says rudely. "What…"

He tenses, turning to see the unpleasant man--a new arrival, almost grey with fatigue, unshaven, probably exhausted and therefore not at his best--staring at him, the familiar, rapid progression of disbelief, fear, and horror across his round face ending with an expression that leaves no doubt of his next course of action.

Without thinking, Castiel puts down the cup before catching the man's wrist mid-punch, twisting his arm behind back. "That was a terrible idea," he tells him, kicking the back of his knee and sending him to the floor with a grunt of pain. Letting him go, he fights down the flash of anger: long journey, hungry, tired, minor children may have cried the entire endless drive, ran out of gas and they had to walk. "Please don't try that again."

Straightening, he realizes belatedly how loud the mess was, the background threads of voices and clattering dishes and crying children, only in its utter silence. Turning around, he's greeted by a sea of unblinking (human) eyes, electric like the moment before lightning flashes across a clear sky.

Linear time progresses at a (mostly) uniform pace (give or take singularities, spatial anomalies, and dimensional tears in spacetime), a fact he accepted as absolutely true only when an angel and learned as a mortal was one of the biggest lies ever perpetuated on reality. It can speed to the point of losing entire days or slow to an endless, merciless crawl. 

It's forever here; long enough for him to find each exit blocked with unmoving bodies, a brick-backed wall on two sides and an inhabited kitchen on the third; long enough to assess the threat in equations with too many variables when there's at least seventy-two able bodied adults in this room and no way to ascertain how many are armed; long enough to taste adrenaline at the endless spike of their fear and his own.

What do they see, he's never asked, never needed to; a monster is reflected back at him on every single face.

Someone shouts, "What the fuck is that thing?"

All at once, the silence shatters: people shouting, tables and chairs skidding across the floor, some overturned in crashes of linoleum and metal, crying and screaming children. A man's angry bellow cuts through it as he overturns a table as he heads toward Castiel, and in his peripheral vision, Castiel marks two figures darting between the tables on approach to his left and one from the right, all fumbling beneath their open coats.

The click of a safety from the floor gives him just enough time to look down the trembling barrel of the man's gun before he pulls the trigger. Castiel hears the gunshot and then nothing but silence.

* * *

He told Dean: we are wrath, vengeance, justice--we are our Father's judgment and we carry out His will with neither compassion nor mercy. Violence is essentially what we are, leashed only by our obedience to our Father; without that leash, we are chaos incarnate. 

I am a soldier, and we are not sent to walk the world in times of peace.

Castiel was never purposed to offer aid and comfort, bring them reassurance and joyous tidings, give absolution and mercy; he, like his Brethren, were called to earth to administer their Father's justice and that was to kill in His name. They were formed for it from the moment of their creation, their service to humanity focused on the elimination of threats to its existence, including individuals within it; those that contravened the laws of man or his Father's will were their natural prey.

The Host wasn't unleashed to save the world; when they walked the earth, it was to burn it.

He thinks, seeing the grinning faces of people long dead: they hunted me the length of a day that was forever. The insult was insupportable, the ignorance inexplicable; how could they not understand? My purpose is _death_. What I fear, I neither flee before nor beg for mercy; I kill.

He's never told Dean this fundamental truth: the only thing I regret is that I didn't kill them all before they could fire a single shot that night.

* * *

_What the fuck is that thing?_

From his crouch on the floor, Castiel slowly turns to look at the bullets buried in the wall, rage thundering through him without end, filling his ears, and thinks: if you want a monster, you'll get one.

The shooter screams, high and terrified, when Castiel snaps his wrist, finger jerked from the trigger; setting the safety, he turns in time to slam the first attacker into the floor, leaving him grunting wetly into the stained wood from a broken nose, the second and third unconscious before they slide down the wall; the last groans weakly across a trestle table with a dislocated shoulder, mouth swollen and dripping red.

Ignoring the roar in the background, he returns to the kneeling man who cowers sobbing at his feet, breathing inarticulate pleas for mercy. Thumbing the safety, Castiel looks down at him for a moment before setting the barrel against his forehead.

 _For they know not what they do_ ; it's baffling, how much faith they place in those words, as if they have only to say them to make them true. An explanation that removes the need for apology; a reason to disclaim responsibility; a defense against lack of repentance; an excuse to feel no regret. Humans do like their loopholes; murder can be excused or ignored provided you know the right words, a spell that makes them truth. The truth, they say, that will set you free, hands dripping invisible blood indistinguishable from those washed clean.

He sweeps the room with a contemptuous glance, its occupants unmoving, hoping only not to draw notice, their lives spared, uncaring it comes at the expense of another. He was hunted the length of a day before the averted eyes of an entire camp, who went armed to their rest that evening behind locked doors, hoping indifference would be mistaken for ignorance, hoping cowardice would be thought practical, hoping that their lives would be spared at the expense of his own. For they knew exactly what they were doing that night; they simply didn't care.

_Thing._

This is humanity.

He thinks of the narrow, blood-stained streets where he stepped over bodies while pulling free his blade to thrust into the next, indifferent to the screams of pain and fear, their last breaths spent in imprecations against his kind, supplication to their gods for their help, gasped pleas for succor and comfort and kindness and mercy, howling of injustice as if they could possibly know the meaning of the word. Tiny, insignificant, crawling on the surface of this world like maggots….

"Qafsiel Kaziel, Cassiel, Castiel, Messenger," a light, clear voice says in amusement, and he jerks his gaze to a dark-haired woman in a hunter's loose jacket and jeans, dusty boots crossed at the ankle as she leans back against a table and smiles at him with the same brilliant eyes of a man over two millennia dead. "Son of God, angel of the Lord, Castiel of the Host, courier of the Pantheons, victor of the Siege of Hell--"

"That," he whispers, "was a long time ago."

"--Castiel Gabriel Singer, Castiel of Chitaqua" she continues, laughter rippling through her voice as she pushes off the table, "and owner of 'thing Dean will cover with salt and set on fire in the front yard', by whatever name, with whatever rite, in whatever appearance it is right to invoke thee, I entreat you to grant me a single request."

"I would think Charon would better guard her barge from Elysium's residents."

"Before Charon crossed the Rivers Styx and Acheron for the last time, they passed to Elysium their claim to all that was within their domain; we are their heirs," she answers soberly, a flicker of raw pain crossing her face. A suggestion of dappled light forms around her, a soft brightness growing in the distance. "They set the Barge of the Dead alight on the shores of the world before Lucifer's eyes and laughed when the Rivers refused to allow him passage by our order, our claim upheld. They laughed even as the Misborn offspring of Cynothoglys he released upon her fed until nothing remained."

He swallows down the unexpected dart of pain. "They would do no less. I hope he hears it still."

"He will find it difficult to avoid," she answers with a smile mixed with grief and satisfaction and loss. "Wherever the Five Rivers would flow, so does their laughter within it by our will; so it was, is, and shall be until the end of Time itself." Crossing her arms, she cocks his head. "Forgive me, I interrupted you. 'Tiny, insignificant, crawling on the surface of this world like maggots.…'"

To his shock, Castiel feels a flash of heat burn across his face. 

"What would your Brothers say, Castiel of Chitaqua--"

"I have no Brothers," he says bitterly.

"--to know that you think of them thus?" she demands. "That you would be false to them in all ways? With your eyes when you would look upon them and with your body when you would lie with them, with your mouth when you would speak to them and with your actions when you would teach them, with your heart when you--"

"I never lied!" he shouts and hears the unspoken concession too late to deny its truth. "You presume to sit in judgement on _me_? You tell me, heir of Charon, what I have done to deserve this?"

"I'm not here to judge you," she answers softly. "I'm here to bear you company and offer you comfort in your pain, as you did first for my grandfather, for his mother, and then for me."

All at once, the rage drains away. "What?"

"Did you think I would not know a Messenger when one stooped to manifest before me? My mother was not so lax in my education." She smiles at him with a singular sweetness, she who never knew fear. She walked the Forum Romanum where women were never before welcome like her grandfather before her, guided the minds of two extraordinary men to continue his work and stood before the rostra itself with the masses to scream her support, raised an army under her own name to march on Rome and went to war against the living, breathing penalty of the gods…and was betrayed by a man not fit to so much as speak her name. "My bath grew cold; you warmed it. When I opened my veins, the knife fell from my hand; you caught it before it could touch the floor. My life was my own, no man's to take; I took it myself without regret, but I was alone in my pain. Then you were there; you held my hand, you dried my tears, you told me you knew me, that you had watched me for the length of my life, that I had never been alone. You told me you knew my grandfather and his mother, and you told me I was a worthy heir to their names. How could I not know you?"

She raises a hand and the room is swept with a warm breeze, dispelling the endless cold, the sunlight of Elysium bathing the room in shades of amber and gold, quiet and peace, but even that can't erase what almost happened here.

"Better?" she asks softly.

Nothing can make this better. "I owe you a debt for your intervention. If you hadn't come, I would have--"

"No, you wouldn't have," she interrupts, looking surprised. "Why would you think such a thing?"

"We are the Host unleashed upon the earth," he answers dully. "That is what we _are_. They are our natural prey."

"You're a thousand people, Castiel of Chitaqua," she answers with a smile, "and you've only just started. The Host is only one of them, and you hold their leash." Before he can answer that, she makes a face. "Now, before I go, would you hear my request?"

From her expression, she's quite serious. "Why not?" Then, because he can't help himself, "What would you ask of us, heir of Charon?"

She hesitates. "How--how does _avia_? I would know her as you do. Is she well?"

Castiel tries, but the burst of laughter--like many things--denies his will, and her worried expression dissolves into relief. "Yes. Yes, I'd say so."

"I look forward to meeting her," she says, taking a step back, and wiping his eyes, Castiel sees two figures emerge from the distant light. Glancing back, she smiles at the men who formed themselves in her image and made her their lives entire. "I should--"

"One thing we would know, heir of Charon," he interrupts pleasantly, observing the chagrin on her face as he considers the form she chose to take: a hunter. Interesting. "By what right do you walk the earth now? Charon had no such privilege in the living world to bestow on Elysium."

"The murder of Charon must be avenged, and I earned first right to their blood. While the Misborn live, for one sevenday per year I may hunt them on earth." She widens her eyes in a facsimile of respectful awe. Even in life, she was terrible at it and hasn't improved whatsoever since. "Anything else, Castiel of the Host?"

It's an effort not to smile. "And you waste that time here because….?"

"I told you why." She grins at his bewildered expression. "And now I must go, to take my comfort and my rest from those who offer it while I can. There is much to do."

"You take the pleasures of Elysium very seriously." An existence of nothing but pleasure: all that you could want, but nothing you don't know to want, nothing new at all. 

"Pleasure has its time and place, but my work must come first," she says, startling him out of wondering uncomfortably when 'eternal pleasure' became synonymous with 'boring'. "The Barge we must build with our own hands anew, the ferrier chosen, the shades prepared. The work is slow, but it progresses apace."

Castiel snaps to attention. "What?"

"We hold the Five Rivers, but he still claims the shores and the Door; his creatures patrol the shores in his name, and we will not have it," she answers, lifting her chin proudly. "It is ours, and we shall take it."

He starts to answer that insanity before pausing, searching her face. "What are you doing, heir of Charon?"

"My work, and it's only begun," she answers. "He asked the question, and through all of space and time, we heard it; our answer is yes. It's not over yet." Her smile widens, fierce. "It hasn't even started."

" _Who_ \--"

"And now I go to claim my comfort and rest before I start my work again." She smirks as the two men join her in the dimming light. "You should try it."

Taking a deep breath, Castiel flicks the safety back on and steps away. Holding the man's terror-filled eyes, he releases the magazine onto the floor and clears the chamber before deliberately tightening his fingers, crushing the barrel in a teeth-jarring squeal of bending metal .

"If I wanted to kill you," he says softly, "I wouldn't need a gun to do it. I don't, however, and I would appreciate the same courtesy from you."

He thinks, staring down into that horror: if I could, for the length of a year and a day, I'd give you this: when you close your eyes in search of rest, you won't find it; when you take a mouthful of food or drink of water, the taste will revolt you; when you look upon the sons of men for companionship in your joy and your troubles, you will never find it; and when you offer your companionship in theirs, they will reject it. I forebear to wish that they try to shoot you, however, a mercy that humanity hasn't accorded to me.

Turning, he surveys the room, the humans cowering behind overturned tables and beneath the chairs, whispered fear and muffled sobs, prayers for succor and comfort and mercy, an endless din that grows louder with every moment that passes. Millennia peel away like the skin of an onion, familiar; as it was then, when Castiel of the Host walked through cities with his Brethren, swords unsheathed and soaked in fresh blood in air thick with endless screaming, it is now when he….

Shaking his head clear, he fights the urge to rub at the faint ache in his temples; he needs to leave, now.

"The next human to raise his hand to me will be killed," he says flatly to the watchful eyes. "Feel free to test this, however; I would appreciate the practice." 

Starting toward the door, he ignores the scramble of people and objects from his path, opening the door and stepping out of the suffocating fear of the room and into the grey light of day and a quiet street dotted with a few passing people, oblivious.

Looking down, he sees metal twisted out of recognition and realizes he's still holding the spherical remains of the last man's gun.

* * *

Amanda looks up with a cheerful smile from the paper spread out on the table before her. "What, no coffee…." Her expression fixes, eyes flickering from his face down to the remains of the gun in his hand and back. "Metal stress ball, that's new. Everything okay?"

"There was an incident at the mess with some very unpleasant members of your species." He drops it on the edge of the table with a dull clang of jagged metal and wood, rubbing impatiently at the throb in his temples that threatens to colonize his entire head. "You all look very much the same, and I had no interest in their names."

Amanda nods and folds her hands on the table, smile unchanged, but he drops his gaze to the meaningless scribbles on the paper in front of her. 

"Okay." She reaches for the notebook at the edge of the table as it dawns on him that the scribbles aren't entirely random "Not much going on. Thirty minutes until the next shift change--oh." She rifles through some papers before handing him something. "Wendy of Noak, said you wanted this."

Castiel takes it, frowning for a minute as he scans the spidery handwriting and inexplicably feels himself relaxing. Flipping it over, he nods. "Can you find out what she'd take in trade?"

"For--"

"Everything, if possible," he says, handing it back and trying to think what they have to trade. "I’m not sure what we can use for--"

"I'll talk to her," Amanda says cheerfully, setting it carefully on top of the pile on the far side of the table. "Pretty sure we can afford it, just gonna tell you now."

"Excellent." Reaching out, he slides the paper from her belatedly protective hand, the brush of warm skin against his wrist strangely calming. Ignoring her protest, he squints down at it, trying to resolve it into something that makes sense. "What is this?"

She glares at the paper. "Thing I was--doing. Could you--"

"It looks like…." Uncertain, he turns it sideways, then upside down, but it helps not at all.

"What?" she asks warily.

"An abstract representation of your ennui," he says and is rewarded by Amanda's startled laughter. Taking in the table, he sees his maps stacked nearby, one set carefully to the side and looks at the paper again, appalled by what this might be. "It's very--is this a map of Ichabod? It doesn't have to be: Amanda's Ennui, in the Afternoon, very modern."

She groans. "I was going to offer to help update the maps, so figured I'd better--you know, make a copy of your map and practice first. Haven't drawn anything in…ever, possibly."

No matter how he looks at it, there's no resemblance between this and any map ever made in the entirety of history. "I'm so very sorry."

"It's like the pencil hated me," she says, eyeing the paper resentfully. "No matter what I did, it--did that."

"Your skills are unparalleled when dealing death to monsters, however," he says encouragingly. "I'll do the updates. Where are…" He stares at the table, bare of all writing implements but a substandard number two pencil that doesn't even possess an eraser--at least, not anymore. "Could you send someone to find me more supplies? Paper and whatever drafting implements that can be found." She follows his gaze to the pencil uncertainly. "None of those, however."

"I'll do it," she says, looking relieved as she stretches her hand. "Give me--"

"I need you here," he interrupts reluctantly. "I need you to take my report of the incident to Dean as soon as I'm done with it. He'll doubtless have to explain this--incident--so he should know as soon as possible and preferably before anyone else mentions it to him. He's currently meeting with the council, however, so I suggest taking a book while you wait."

Amanda blinks at him slowly, tilting her head.

"We're guests here," he explains. "I doubt Alison would appreciate interrupting the council meeting for a personal matter."

"Right." Amanda sighs and gets to her feet. "Let me send someone for art supplies first, then I'll--get your report. And a book." Her gaze drops to the metal ball on the edge of the table and abruptly fixes there. "First, though--Cas, preview of coming events: mess, short version?"

"Five individuals took exception to my presence," he recites as she slowly picks up the metal ball with an expression he can't interpret, turning it over in her hands. "There were one hundred and fourteen witnesses not including volunteer staff--"

"Fast-forward to the part where you tell me what your stress ball was before it was a stress ball?" she asks, and he sees she's turned it to observe the remains of the end of the barrel, eyes widening in unmistakable recognition. "Cas, was this a gun?"

"Yes." Before his eyes, she almost drops it. "It's not mine."

"It's not yours… Kamal!" she shouts toward the hallway leading to their kitchen, and unsurprisingly, he appears almost immediately, looking worried; her voice was very adamant. "Where's James' team right now?"

"Upstairs, why? Uh, Nate's still helping Tony--"

"Art supplies," she tells him. "Supply-finding king, that's our James. Kamal, catch this," she says, tossing it at him. "Cas's new stress ball, cool, huh? Three guesses what it used to be. Cas, those five playmates of yours--where are they again?"

"I didn't stay to find out," he admits. "By now, probably the infirmary."

Kamal inexplicably drops the gun-turned-stress-ball, staring down at it. "Are there bullets in there?"

"No, of course not," he answers, looking between them. "That would be irresponsible."

"Where," Amanda says slowly, "are the bullets?"

"On the floor of the mess," he answers, then frowns. "And in the wall as well."

"The _wall_...." Amanda reaches for the back of the chair and closes her eyes for a long moment. "Really. Kamal, change of plans: where's Alicia?"

"Perimeter duty," he answers, still staring at the gun-stress-ball. 

"I got a job for her; she loves to draw. Send James' team out to take over," Amanda says. "I'll be in the back taking Cas's report on this incident…." She stops short, and he sees her fingers tighten on the back of the chair. "Tell me when she gets here so I can brief her." Her eyes flicker to Castiel with an unreadable look. "About art supplies." 

"Got it." Kamal hesitates, gingerly picking up the metal ball (does he think it will bite?) and setting it on the table carefully before starting toward the stairs at something not unlike a run.

"So," Amanda says when they're alone, tilting her head toward the back room where patrol's been meeting. "Let's do your report on this personal incident. I want all the details."

* * *

He spends the next half-hour after that performing his duties with methodical precision, leaving the two boxes of supplies Amanda acquired (where, he didn't ask) unopened and unexamined in the far corner of the second floor room while he works.

Every time he enters the front room, he finds himself staring at the metal stress ball still sitting on the table, scraping his nerves with the memory of the man who called him a thing. He may be acquiring his first stress headache; mortality is indeed the gift that never stops giving.

He listens to the report of those going on perimeter shift with as much patience as he can despite the fact that all of them seem inexplicably terrible with constructing sentences, fighting the urge to rub his temples.

"That is sufficient," he says shortly, cutting off Tara's faltering explanation of something about an escalating argument that he cares nothing about and keeping his gaze firmly on the blank page of the notebook. "Does anyone have any questions?"

_What the fuck is that thing?_

"I doubt it," a new voice says from the doorway. "Go forth and be useful. Dismissed."

Dean, of course: Castiel keeps is attention strictly on his notebook--acquired from he doesn't particularly care--until the door closes and he's fairly sure he has no excuse not to look up. "They were supposed to wait to speak to you until the meeting with Ichabod's council was finished."

"Cas, they aren't that stupid," Dean says grimly, starting toward him. "You okay?"

"Don't be insulting," he answers dismissively, and Dean stops short. "Five untrained, hysterical humans barely qualify as a nuisance."

"Yeah, right." Dean licks his lips. "Look--"

_…that thing._

"I finished a full report on the incident to supplement the one I gave Amanda, and it's waiting for you at the front desk," he interrupts, ignoring the spike of pain across his temple. Perhaps he's developed a human propensity for migraines: excellent. "I apologize that my actions interrupted the meeting--"

"You didn't," Dean bites out, "do anything wrong."

"Then I sincerely apologize for how much time you'll have to spend today explaining that to the rest of your species; it hasn't worked before, but as they say, try, try again." Dean closes his eyes, mouth thinning, and he wishes he hadn't said that. "I apologize," he says, this time with actual sincerity. "I’m not feeling my best at the moment."

"It's fine," Dean says, and distantly, Castiel hears someone--Joseph--calling Dean's name. "Cas--"

"Joseph is calling you."

"He can wait."

"You shouldn't make him," he says. "I have work to do." After a moment, he makes himself add, "If--for some reason…if it would help, I'll explain my actions to whoever you feel--"

"No." Castiel focuses on the notebook again, trying to swallow around the hard lump in his throat. "You didn't do anything wrong--" Joseph's voice interrupts them, and Dean's expression darkens. "Look--"

"I have work to do, and so do you," he says. "I'll talk to you when I go off-duty."

Dean turns the doorknob but seems disinclined to move. "Cas--"

"I'm fine," he says flatly. "Now go."

He keeps his attention strictly on the notebook until he hears the door close again and when he looks up, the room is empty. 

Waiting a few long moments, he goes back into the main room, where Amanda is still inexplicably on desk duty. "I'm going to work on updating the maps," he says. "If there's anything that needs my attention, please come get me."

"Let me take the briefings with the teams," Amanda answers, playing with the same substandard pencil as she turns in her chair to look at him seriously. "Ennui."

His defensive refusal melts as he looks around the empty room and reluctantly admits that's probably true. "Keep me updated."

"Yes, sir, and thank God," she says with a dramatic sigh. "Yell down if you need anything."

* * *

Despite the slowly growing headache--or perhaps because of it--Castiel finishes three copies of the revised maps far too quickly, and once completed, his attention wanders back toward the mess, refusing all efforts to capture it (even sheepapodes fail, and he's not entirely sure whether he's grateful or not). Reading the reports--twice--yields no enlightenment whatsoever and he sets them aside before the temptation to set everything on fire becomes too strong. Sketching a random assortment of circles across the width of a blank piece of paper, Castiel tries to clear his mind, but his efforts at meditation have never worked before, and this attempt fails immediately, the hatred and fear on the faces of those men dragging themselves through his mind.

_What the fuck is that thing?_

They're still alive; he wonders if, like the team leaders, he'll always regret he didn't kill them.

Looking down at a muted snap, Castiel sees the crushed remains of the pencil crumbling onto the table from between his fingers and fights back the flash of anger that seems to exist only to intensify the endless throbbing in his temples. Even the faint sound of voices downstairs seems to echo in his head, and he wonders how many of his current subordinates left their cabins the next dawn assuming he and Vera were dead.

Amanda's bright laughter cuts through the voices, and all at once, he relaxes, reminded of those who didn't; they comforted Vera and cleaned the broken glass from the floor, pried the bullets from the wall and erased the evidence beneath drywall and paint, so that by dawn, the only evidence of that night was confined to memory alone.

Getting abruptly to his feet, he picks up his coat from the corner where he tossed it and frowns at the unexpected heaviness. Reaching inside, he finds an unfamiliar box within one of the inner pockets and after a moment, recognizes it as the candle Wendy gave him. The sense of power is obvious when he removes the lid, and taking it out, he closes his eyes; even unlit, the sense of calm and peace tucked in each curve of smooth wax is unmistakable. 

Opening his eyes, he searches the tiny room and then simply clears the desk, letting everything fall to the floor and retrieving a piece of paper and a pencil. He sketches the design from memory, a simple rectangle with a circle at its heart, lines radiating from eight points on the outer circle to touch the inner rectangle's inner lines. Checking the size of the candle against it confirms the overlap, but turning it over, he notes a simpler version carved into the bottom; Wendy knows her craft very well.

Fumbling in his pocket for his lighter, he flicks it on, staring at the flame for a hypnotic moment as burning cities fill his mind, the screams of people millennia dead, pleas for mercy lost beneath righteous anger: when we walk the earth, we burn it alive.

Not since the first time he took a vessel has he felt so alien within the tight confines human skin. 

"Calm," he tells the candle firmly, setting the flame to the wick and waiting with fragile composure for it to catch. "Serenity. Peace. Inspiration. I'll take anything at this point, even sheepapodes."

The flame catches at the last word (he tries not to read significance into that), burning several inches above the wax, blue heart edging to white and pink, glints of green and blue and gold sparkling merrily along the tip before it returns to normal size. Taking a deep breath, the effects are immediate, and so is the rich smell of fresh mint.

He makes a mental note to create a standing order with Wendy; that's impressive.

Setting it in the circle, he takes another breath, waiting until he can feel himself settle into his skin with an almost audible click; after so much time learning it, so much time living within it, he won't give up a single thing of it. Feeling calmer, he looks at the pile of paper and finished and unfinished maps on the floor, but his fingers itch for something else. 

Before he can think better of it, he opens the door and goes to the head of the stairs, not certain why he doesn't want to go down but willing to indulge it. "Amanda."

She's at the bottom of the stairs immediately, and the worried look she hides almost immediately is soothing as well, though why that's true is also a mystery. "Yeah?"

"I need more paper." He revises that. "Bigger paper."

Amanda cocks her head. "Bigger?"

"I want to draw a larger version of the map," he explains, though he's not entirely sure why. "So I need something--bigger. Perhaps inventory has something."

"Bigger, got it." Amanda nods thoughtfully. "Give me twenty minutes."

* * *

To his surprise, it's less than twenty minutes before Amanda returns with a heavy roll of startlingly white paper, and Evelyn and Kyle carrying--

"Is that a table?" he asks blankly as they lean it against the wall, and indeed that is what it is, dining room perhaps, but missing some very important features (all four legs). "Was this--"

"The one you cleaned up on at poker last night? Yep," Amanda answers, setting down the roll and making a production of rubbing her back before jerking her head toward Evelyn and Kyle to leave. "Good job. Now go away."

"What--" he starts, not taking it personally (much) that Evelyn and Kyle both flee at his confirmation and yes, that was definitely fleeing. At least they close the door behind them.

"Come here," she says, kneeling by the table. "Younger sisters," she explains as she removes a pair of scissors and glue from her coat pocket before taking it off and tossing it to the side. "You learn to get creative with art projects."

"Creative."

"Paper," she says, pointing at the roll. "Large surface," she says, indicating the table. "Glue paper to surface until surface is covered, big paper." At his bewildered look, she grins. "Sixth grade, Julie had to turn in a collage of bugs--not kidding--but forgot to tell anyone until the night before and Wal-Mart was sold out of posterboard because it always is. Bought a package of paper, disassembled a few doomed boxes from--a place--add glue and boom: we got giant ass collage base onto which we added bugs that I also got from--a place."

Kneeling beside her, Castiel assumes that isn't the great outdoors in the middle of the night. "Where?"

"Field Museum in Chicago, fine," she huffs, turning the roll on its side and lining it up with the table before unrolling a length slightly bigger than the table's width. "They had way more than they needed; have you seen their basement? Chock full of all my nightmares. Had a room full of the fuckers that--never mind, flashbacks. Anyway, Julie got an A and no one got arrested for felony breaking and entering." Checking the length, she cuts the paper and rolls out a second length to match the first. "Mom would have been so pissed if I had. She taught me, you know. Dad used to say she could walk through walls."

"I didn't know," he says as she cuts the second sheet and reaches himself to unroll the third length. "What was she like?"

"Mom?" Amanda cuts the paper and stacks it neatly on the first two before letting him roll out a fourth length. "Amazing. Taught me everything I know." Pausing, she sits back on her heels and laughs softly. "My first job, she was so proud. And pissed."

"Why?"

"Well, for one," Amanda starts as she cuts the sheet. "She kind of didn't know about it, but to be fair, neither did I. Until it followed me home, that is. That's when things got weird."

* * *

After she leaves to see to her duties, Castiel retrieves the pencils (not a terrible selection, but certainly inferior to what he has at home) and sits cross-legged facing the newly-created canvas, wondering what to do with it. A larger map would be useful, but….shaking his head, he goes up on his knees and sketches a reasonably accurate outline of the state of Kansas before adding a lighter representation of the currently-existing road system from memory.

_What the fuck is that thing?_

Jerking back before he tears the paper with the tip of the pencil, he takes a deep breath, concentrating on the scent of mint and calm. Serenity. Peace. Inspiration. 

Inspiration: how did Dean put it? It helps to know why you're doing something. Sometimes, however, he's found it's also effective to simply do it and consider 'why' at a more convenient time. Like when he knows the answer, perhaps.

Recalling the reports from Ichabod and Chitaqua, Castiel mentally puts them in order before starting with the first and filling in the first dot for Waterville in pencil before tracing over the most likely path to the northern feeder road leading into the road to Ichabod in brown. Hesitating, he sits back, skimming through all the reports rapidly and pulling the names of each town before setting them on a mental map and observing the whole. This is going to be complicated and monochrome certainly won't help.

Getting up, he retrieves both boxes of supplies, dumping out markers, crayons, map pencils, and pens in a pile before looking at the map again. Roads in five thousand colors was an exaggeration, but color does help when it comes to visual clarity. Selecting a light blue map pencil, he makes a precise dot by Waterville's location and traces along one side of the brown-line of the road before reaching for his pencil and adding the second non-local town on record to arrive in Ichabod.

* * *

He's contemplating white (not easily seen) versus yellow when the sound of raised voices interrupts him, and frowning, he gets to his feet. Opening the door, he starts toward the stairs when Kyle's voice stops him short.

"…just saying, kind of ironic I was called on the carpet for being late--"

"You really want to shut up now," Amanda says.

"--but everyone's fine with Cas's attempted homicide in the mess!" he finishes bitterly. 

"It was five on one," Christina says, sounding angry. "And they're alive, so fuck off. More than I can say would happen if five fuckers went after me."

"Civilians, and Cas doesn't work up a sweat for five _demons_ , come on. I'm saying, maybe someone should remind Dean promotions based on his sex life--"

Kyle's voice cuts off abruptly, and Castiel's almost tempted to see for himself what Amanda just did.

"You really don't know when to shut up," Amanda says pleasantly. "Just a reminder: we're in lockdown until otherwise ordered. Anyone--and I do mean _anyone_ \--breaches our security, I'll shoot first and ask why later. Kyle, you're at two strikes now; one more, you're out of Chitaqua and good luck finding a new home in any Alliance town."

"You can't--" Kyle's mouth shuts abruptly and Castiel realizes he's halfway down the stairs and can't remember deciding to move at all. The abrupt attention of the (far too numerous) people in the room is too much, and Kyle's expression….

"Amanda," he says, trying not to look too closely at anyone else. "I would speak with you. Now."

"You're all dismissed," Amanda says, eyes lingering on Kyle as he goes out the door before turning to follow him back to the top of the stairs. "Everything okay? More pencils, paper, coffee? I can do that."

"Lockdown."

Leaning back against the bannister, she shrugs. "Alicia's still investigating, so until we get her report, access to the building and forty feet from any door is restricted, that's all."

"You know why--"

"I don't know why five non-residents of Ichabod or the Alliance attacked my commander in the mess," she interrupts in the same calm voice, but the subtle emphasis on 'commander' is unmistakable. "Until then, we assume the enemy is among us and strangely suicidal at that." 

"Dean approved this?"

"Dean gave the order before he went back," she answers easily, and he just stops himself from asking if the lockdown also applies to him leaving their headquarters; he wouldn't blame Dean if that were true, but he thinks he'd prefer not to know. "I'm enforcing it." She cocks her head. "I got some updates from the front--or as it's known colloquially, Third Street entrance--so you want me to bring them up now or later?"

He nods jerkily. "Leave them outside the door. I’m--working on something and I'd prefer not to be disturbed."

"Okay," she says with a nod, and Castiel waits for her to disappear down the stairs before returning to the room, shutting the door firmly before taking a deep breath (minty) and….

_...is that thing?_

Yellow, he decides firmly, taking in the blue and red clusters of dots growing in the north and west, the thin brown-lines of roads edged with steadily darkening color; south Kansas is definitely a yellow.

* * *

When he hears the door open, he doesn't bother looking away from the final draft leaning against the opposite wall. All that's left of whatever drove him this endless day is expressed in violent splashes of color and jagged pencil lines criss-crossing the canvas; all he feels now is empty and impossibly tired, with the monotonous throb of a headache that never seems to end.

"I'm busy, as you can't possibly have missed," he says tonelessly. "If you require something, speak to Amanda, and she'll bring it to my attention if it's actually important, which I seriously doubt."

The door closes with a gentle click. "Bad day, honey?" Dean asks mildly. "So, what…." He trails off, and Castiel risks a glance to see him staring at the map, eyes wide before crossing the room to crouch in front of it, head cocked. "Huh."

Castiel swallows, watching Dean trace a finger just above the charcoal lines fanning out from Ichabod in strands ranging from dark grey to almost invisible slate as they stretch across the state, following the complicated tracery of intact roads in shades of brown north through spotted mounds of dark blue that trickle south along the web in ever-decreasing saturation. Dropping his hand, Dean shifts his attention to the red-splotched western border fading to pink before meeting blue in lime green, the yellow of the south darkening until joining red in sharp orange.

"It's not done," he says into the too-long silence, then shakes himself, flexing his hands helplessly against the knotted muscles. "I mean, it's--I was updating our maps and--this--it's nothing--"

"Oh, this is something," Dean interrupts in a curiously hushed voice, following the thickly brown road leading into Ichabod outlined in dozens of dark-grey strokes. "What, though--" 

"What are you doing here?" he interrupts, unable to stop himself from reaching up to rub his temples again; he never realized it really does feel like something is pounding inside your skull. "Is the council meeting over?"

Turning on the balls of his feet, Dean looks back at him incredulously before his expression changes. Before he can interpret it, Dean is crouching in front of him with a frown, reaching out to tip his head up. "What's wrong?"

"Headache," he admits, and seeing Dean stiffen, almost smiles. Oddly enough, the pain recedes as well. "I'm making progress in humanity in the exciting field of stress headaches."

"After the day you had, not a surprise." Dean bites his lip, thumb brushing against his cheek. "Always an overachiever. So, ready to go home?"

"I can't go home." Dean's faint smile freezes, green eyes stricken. "Our jeep is greater than twenty-eight vehicles deep in the south parking lot. What--"

He forgets what he meant to say when Dean kisses him, slow and warm. "My mistake, Alison's building," Dean murmurs against his lips before he pulls back, gentle fingers sliding down his temple and brushing the hair from his eyes before tucking it behind his ear. "Maybe get something to eat, how about that?"

For that smile, he would willingly eat beans and sugar covered in raw oatmeal while perfectly clean and sober. "Is it time for dinner…" He stops short at Dean's raised eyebrows, startled by the time. "Oh. Three hours ago."

"Or twenty-one hours from now, whatever. Lost track of time?" Dean smirks, pushing to his feet and extending a hand. "Figured. Come on. Shower and dinner, how's that sound for a plan?"

He hesitates. "I--"

"And notes from the meetings," Dean adds tempting. "Two of those things involve a bed." He cocks his head. "And at least two definitely involve me. Three if you're lucky."

Despite himself, he feels himself smiling; Dean is not subtle at the best of times, but even for him…. "I've had worse offers."

"Atta boy," Dean says, pulling him to his feet, but instead of letting go, the long fingers lace through his with a quick, warm squeeze before tugging him inexorably toward the door, flipping out the light with his free hand on the way out. 

Going down the stairs, Dean waves at Lena, currently on duty, but Castiel's distracted by the presence of several boxes as well as the lack of furniture. "What--"

"Later," Dean says as they go out the door and into the street. Castiel fights not to stiffen at the sight of people passing in both directions under the bright glare of the streetlights, marking their locations at a glance before swallowing at his first sight of the patrol line one hundred feet away. The temporary fence is strung with lights to mark its presence, but the bright glare of lights at the entrance point illuminates only the leading edge of the endless people waiting to come inside. Following his gaze, Dean's jaw tightens before he pulls Castiel up the street. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

* * *

Getting out of the (very hot) shower, he blinks down at the towel resting on the back of the toilet and folded clothes waiting for him on the seat, topped with a pair of familiar woolen socks. He doesn't remember adding those to their bags before they left.

Dressing quickly due to the chill, he returns to their room to see Dean seated on the bed against the headboard with a stack notebooks beside him as well as the price Castiel must doubtless pay to read them: an entire plate of food. Looking up, Dean grins at him, green eyes appreciative as he engages in the most blatant once-over of Castiel's entire life. Twice.

Closing the door, he tilts his head. "That wasn't subtle."

"Wasn't trying to be," Dean answers, jerking his head to the space beside him. "Vera said that you--"

"You talked to Vera?" Dean's grin widens as he stops half-way to the bed. "About _me_?"

"--that you were direct," he finishes maliciously. "Just taking her advice."

"She gave you _advice_?"

"I don't think she meant it to be," Dean concedes, leaning back against the headboard. "But whatever: it worked. Got your attention, didn't it?" He pats the bed beside him. "Sit down and start eating, then we'll check out the notes from the meeting."

It's not as if he can't be appalled (and morbidly curious) while sitting by Dean. Joining him on the bed, he surveys the tray in lieu of thinking about what else Vera would have told him and _why_.

"Naan," Dean says, pointing to the round shape wrapped in a thin cloth to the side of the plate before starting on the excessively large mounds on what is not, in his experience, a standard-size dinner plate. "Lemon rice, black beans, peas, chickpea something, and the last samosa. Also, the last of the brisket, no sauce left, but whatever, still awesome."

Castiel looks from the plate to Dean incredulously. "I can't eat all this. _Joseph_ couldn’t eat all this and he does it recreationally."

"Again," Dean says patiently, "that's called 'having a snack'. Everyone does it." Handing Castiel a fork, he proceeds to ignore him in favor of searching around the tray and under the notebooks before making a satisfied sound and unearthing a second one. "There we go. I missed dinner, too, so I got enough for us both. Well?"

Castiel looks from Dean's fork hovering in anticipation over a slice of brisket to his equally anticipatory face. "Why did you miss dinner?"

"Waiting for you," he answers as if Castiel is deliberately trying his patience, rolling his eyes before spearing the brisket, folding it over his fork, and stuffing it in his mouth. Chewing enthusiastically, he motions toward the plate urgently, and sighing, Castiel selects a piece of naan and tears it in half before starting on the rice.

Between bites, Dean describes the meeting with Ichabod's council, or rather, trying not to fall asleep from the sheer tedium.

"There's gotta be a circle of Hell where it's all parliamentary procedure, all the time," Dean tells him after watching Castiel finish his half of the chickpea dish (tart and yet also sweet: interesting). "Thirty minutes of nothing but motions, points of order, and tabling shit before we even got to the part about all the people showing up." Shaking his head, he eats the last of the naan. "So that's a couple of hours of my life I'm not getting back. Joe gave me the short version of how it works before the meeting with the Alliance started."

Scraping up the last of the rice, Castiel frowns. "The Alliance met today?"

"Kind of impromptu," Dean says with a shrug, frowning until Castiel obediently finishes the rice. "Volunteers from their patrol'll be here tomorrow to give us all a little breathing room, so that worked out. Also, seventy chickens per town--per day?--or something." His frown deepens. "And cows. I think. Or pigs, maybe."

He considers the amount of his share of the food left on the plate and listening to Dean's version of a verbal report on a meeting (two meetings, one of which may have involved discussion regarding chickens and/or cows (he thinks. Or pigs, maybe)) while eating it at his current speed. Bracing himself, he starts again, faster.

"Vera did great," Dean continues, setting down his fork with a sigh and leaning back against the pillows. "Said she and Joe could handle the rest of the talking after I softened 'em up for them." 

Castiel finishes the beans and brisket with the minimal amount of chewing to assure he doesn't choke to death before dropping his fork on the empty plate, picking up the tray to remove to the nearest chair, and returning to see Dean holding out the notebooks with a grin.

"Vera's and Joe's," he says, then makes a face. "Had to swear I'd give them to you the minute I saw you and they'd ask you in the morning."

Taking them, he watches incredulously as Dean slides off the bed and starts toward the door. "Where are you going?"

"I just remembered," he says as he opens the door, "I made coffee. Be right back."

* * *

Joseph's handwriting is execrable at the best of times, but it degrades rapidly before he reaches page two, which slows his reading considerably. In addition, he has a strong propensity to write his more questionable (hilarious) observations in Hebrew in equally unreadable script. Using Vera's much clearer notes as reference (and noting how often they wrote notes to each other in the text of each other's notebooks, Vera especially with questions regarding this or that person, and even on occasion the additional pleasure of Dean's mockery of them both), he settles down to enjoy himself. Their reports have always been superlative reading; the raw notes, while not as organized, are even better, and Dean's dry inserts make this superior to even hippofucker for humor (though nothing could approach it for horror).

"Worried Joe's notes would slow you down," Dean says, handing him a cup and climbing on the bed to sit across from him. "Is my timing awesome or what?"

"Poor Alison," he murmurs, imagining her expression as he sips the (perfectly prepared) coffee. "You weren't joking; thirty minutes of their Parliamentarian doing nothing but arguing about parliamentary procedure."

"They have a _parliamentarian_ ," Dean marvels, shaking his head as he absently tugs Castiel's feet into his lap. "Joe said he was trying to show off, I don't know."

"He was," Castiel agrees, skimming back up. "So we've agreed to remain here for the duration of the--situation--and assist Ichabod." He flips to the end of the written pages and frowns at the paper trapped in the spiral, as if pages were removed. "Dean, what--"

"I'm gonna need you to make some adjustments to the shift schedule-- _tomorrow_ ," Dean says firmly, squeezing his ankles in emphasis. "They'll drop off the one for Ichabod and the volunteers from the other towns taking perimeter or entrance shifts in the morning, so no worries, okay?"

He resists the urge to remind Dean that he doesn't _worry_ ; it's simply a matter of extremely complicated logistics. The shift schedule for perimeter duty was very carefully designed to assure everyone--voluntarily or not--has a mandatory eight hour period to sleep, a half hour for each of their three required daily meals, and two hours of recreation within each twenty-four hour period. Left to their own devices, Chitaqua's soldiers would do none of those things and be honestly surprised when they collapsed from exhaustion or dehydration patrolling the perimeter or assisting at Volunteer Services.

"Vera and Kamal volunteered to be on call tonight if anything comes up," Dean adds meaningfully before he starts to peel off on of Castiel's socks. He nods and starts to ask again about the pages but loses his train of thought at the feel of the strong thumb rubbing into the tight muscles of his instep. "…Cas, you listening?"

He blinks and sees first Dean's smirk, then him reaching ostentatiously for an anonymous brown bottle of what smells like lotion or oil, adding some to his palm (lotion from the appearance) before returning to Castiel's foot. "Where did you get--"

"Better to ask forgiveness than explain to Alison why I wanted it," Dean says wryly, fingers expertly working the length of his foot. "Anyway, we told the Alliance that we sent for the rest of our people at Chitaqua, but hell if I know if they can get through this shit even if they go off-road. The roads are backed up at least ten miles and that's just a guess. Goddamn hills: when did Kansas get _hills_ anyway?"

"I assume…you're speaking rhetorically," he answers vaguely, making an effort to visualize the lay of the land and finding the right point as Dean's inspired fingers work their way along the side of his foot. "Between four and eight miles. I think."

"Huh?" Dean works a miracle against the ball of his foot, and Castiel's head drops back against the headboard. "Cas?"

"If I remember correctly," he manages as Dean increases his efforts, moving to the base of his toes with long, luxurious points of pressure, "which at this moment is not a guarantee, the land flattens out between four and eight miles down the road from Ichabod. We set--oh." He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes on Dean's bent head, but he doesn't need to see his face to sense the smugness radiating from him. "Set the outer perimeter there on each of the four roads, and clear all vehicles from the roads between Ichabod and there."

Dean pauses, eyebrows raised before he starts to nod. "Get out the trucks--or hey, buses, some of them weren't stuck in parking hell--and bring people in ourselves to the ward line? Take care of the fighting at the patrol line, yeah, and less pressure on the town perimeter. That'll slow down getting 'em in, though."

"It won't," he answers as Dean eases the sock from his other foot and reaches for the lotion. "At least, I don't think so. Right now the entrance point is bottlenecked by the sheer number trying to get in and Ichabod's efforts are divided between controlling them, checking those who enter the wards, and holding a full perimeter around the town to keep people from entering anywhere but the entrance point as well as watch for danger."

Dean spends several long moments thinking while methodically working from Castiel's heel to his instep with incredible results. "Manuel and Alison are already in bed, but--"

"We can't start until morning at the earliest," he interrupts. "Two hours after dawn at the earliest with the current weather conditions: we need clear line of sight to confirm my suppositions. I'll send Alicia's team to do it." He hesitates. "No matter what we find, it must be decided eventually how many people Ichabod can afford to house. It's not a question of willingness, but sheer available space behind Teresa's ward line. Even assuming Tony clears everything yellow-marked and lighter for use, I know the exact square footage available from Syracuse to Third Street and how many can be accommodated both theoretical and actual."

"And then there's food, water, housing, and heating," Dean agrees with a nod at the notebooks. "And sick people and kids, yeah. Gotta admit, started to miss all those points of order on motions about who can do points of order real fast when we got to that at the meeting."

Cas tilts his head. "Technically speaking, our responsibilities are limited to shared defense, which in this case, considering the number of people at Ichabod's patrol line, assistance with that could easily be considered. Not to mention the potential threat that drove them here, if it exists."

"There's that," Dean agrees, and Castiel pauses to enjoy the feel of Dean's hands working out the last of the tension in his foot. "Nate doing shit with city services on the buildings…."

"Perfectly valid," he replies. "People are dangerous when tired and afraid; we're effectively disarming them by assisting in assuring they have places to stay."

"And James and the others volunteering with adhoc Volunteer Services by the new mess to--no idea what they're doing," he says with a frown, finishing with a last stroke before setting Cas's foot in his lap beside the first and leaning his head on one hand. "I should find out and tell 'em--"

"Assisting in preparing and taking food and blankets to those being housed in the buildings is also perfectly valid and they should continue doing it," he answers immediately. "Hungry people riot, leading to violence, rebellion, and civil war, then you discover Rome's Republic is dead and it's just crowned its first Caesar. No one wants that to happen again." He thinks of Gaius Julius Caesar wistfully and his reaction to that. "Caesar _Augustus_ of all names: if there is any suspicion that Caesar Octavianus was compensating for something, I can confirm he very much was."

Dean shuts his eyes, mouth tight, but a strangled sound emerges despite his obvious near-heroic efforts. 

"Then again," he says meditatively, "Vipsanius Agrippa and Livia Drusilla certainly had no complaints, so who am I to judge?" Dean nods tightly. "At least it didn't involve sheep."

Dean bursts into laughter, dropping back against the mattress with an audible thump. Smiling, Castiel settles back against the pillows, content to listen and feeling very warm.

After several minutes, Dean pushes himself upright, face flushed and green eyes dancing; Castiel catches his breath.

"Glad to know first Emperor of Rome didn't fuck sheep," Dean says, squeezing his eyes shut with a choked sound on the last word. "So, wanna talk about what happened in the mess today?"

He stiffens, unable to stop himself and he knows Dean sees it. "My report--"

"Your commander read your report and acted on the information, but I can't tell you more since he went off-duty about an hour ago." He cups Castiel's ankles. "Your partner, on the other hand, heard about your shitty day and wants to know if you wanna talk about it." Squeezing gently, he adds, "You don't have to."

He thinks of the last few hours. "I thought…." He swallows, leaning his head back against the headboard. "I thought I was truthful when I told you that I was used to it."

"Don't worry," Dean assures him. "Didn't believe it when you said it."

"I lost my temper."

"Happens when someone goes for a gun to use on you," he agrees. "One hell of a stress ball, by the way." Then, "Cas, I can't read your mind, but right now, I really, really want to."

"I wanted to kill them."

Dean nods. "Pretty normal reaction to someone trying to kill you."

"Not for that," he says dismissively, and Dean's eyebrows jump. "They weren't dangerous, simply annoying."

"They _shot at you_."

"They called me a _thing_." Dean stills, green eyes suddenly unreadable, and he looks away. "I've never been that angry before."

After an long moment, Dean says, "That would piss anyone off."

"When you release a rabid dog from its leash," he starts, "be very sure that what you want done requires the actions of a rabid dog. You cannot decide it should instead act as a cat."

"You aren't," Dean bites out, "a rabid dog."

"Only a rabid dog bites simply because it can," he answers. "It needs no reason, all provocation or none is of equal weight; that is its nature. To kill when threatened is reason; to do it because I disliked the words spoken to me is the nature of a rabid dog. All provocation or none is of equal weight; I would have done it simply because I can. Because it's my nature to kill." He meets Dean's eyes. "That would make me a monster, fit only to be hunted and then killed."

"You didn't."

"I didn't." Leaning back against the pillows, he tries to think. "I don't want to be a monster, Dean."

"Not a problem," Dean says, easing Castiel's feet from his lap and shifting to his knees. "You're not a monster. Anything else?"

Mouth dry, he looks upon the shape of his life in all its brilliance, his comfort and his rest. "Say it again."

"You're not," Dean repeats, sliding a hand under each calf and with a quick tug, pulls Castiel halfway down the bed, "a monster."

"I've wiped out entire races of humanity's forbearers by the Host's command," he says as Dean plants a hand by his shoulder, tipping his head back to look up at him. "The Host has wiped this planet bare more than once in my Father's name."

"I bet you were impressive as hell," Dean says with a grin. "Wish I could have seen it. Bloody sword, wings, halo--"

"It's not really a halo." 

"But it's not like you're not pretty impressive now," Dean continues, one hand pushing back Castiel's hair from his eyes. "Give you a gun, working range, or laptop, and you're changing the world. Or at least Chitaqua's living conditions and the number of living Croats in a given area: nice work, by the way."

"Why?" 

Dean cocks his head. "Why what?"

"What's the difference?" he asks. "As I was then, so am I now. The body I wear is human enough--as least in a general sense, the specifics less so--but what is within it is not."

"What's in there," Dean says maddeningly, "is you, Cas. And not," he adds with a warning look, "a monster. Got it?"

Castiel thinks: what does he see when he looks at me? "Say it again."

Dean blinks slowly; it seems to take him an inordinate amount of time to speak, but patience is a virtue, and Castiel has practice. "Uh--what?" Then, with a visible effort, "You're not a mon--"

"Not that part." Shifting his hips, he sets his heel against Dean's ankle and drags it up the length of his calf with gratifying results, if Dean's expression is any indication. "My name. I would hear you say it."

Dean sucks in a breath, and Castiel idly slides his heel halfway up Dean's thigh before digging into the thick muscle and applying pressure. With a startled sound, Dean catches himself on his elbows, gasping when his cock slides against Castiel's thigh before another shift settles him exactly where he wants him. " _Cas_ , Jesus."

"I'd prefer the former unaccompanied," he breathes, closing his eyes as Dean groans, hips jerking forward involuntarily. "As well as that, yes."

A rough tug on his hair seems to be a request for his attention. Opening his eyes, he looks up at Dean. "Yes?"

"What," he says clearly, disagreeably still now, but Castiel takes consolation in the fact he obviously doesn't want to be, "are you doing?"

"Allowing you to seduce me," he answers, reaching up to cup Dean's face and swallowing when Dean leans into the touch. "Please continue; you're succeeding very well, but then again, I understand I'm easy."

"You," Dean starts, the wide grin at odds with the severe tone of voice, "are that fucking rock that guy kept trying to push up the hill and never made it. Maybe the hill, too, fuck if I know."

"It was a boulder that would roll away every time Sisyphus reached the summit of the hill. Zeus was cheating, as always," Castiel answers distractedly, tangling a hand in Dean's short hair and pulling him closer with a satisfied groan as Dean's full weight settles against him. "Sisyphus was very clever, however," he adds, then sees Dean's smile fade into something else. "What?"

Holding his eyes, Dean shifts minutely, dragging his cock against Castiel's for an endless moment. "That's," he breathes, resting his forehead against Castiel's, "for you. Got it?" He wets his lips. "I want you."

He stills at Dean's voice saying those words, and grinning, Dean kisses him before he can manage a reply or remember what those are.

Lust has no measure, no difference be found in quality or quantity; it simply is, uncontrollable in elicitation and lacking in discernment in who or what may inspire its presence. He's long reconciled himself to the mindlessness of it; the choice of where he takes his pleasure and with whom is and has always been his own. How humans could make a mess of something so simple was baffling; then again, many things human are, and that which could not be understood, if it could not be learned, must be accepted.

The first lesson he learned was the most painful, as true things always are, and the most important, it's value beyond measure. It's fitting that it would inform the rest of his life: _I want_.

Dean pulls back with a gasp. "Sisyphus. Almost forgot."

"What?"

"You said he was smart," Dean explains, and never again will Castiel think of the Greek mythology without remembering this. "Pushing a rock up a hill and knowing he'll lose it before he gets there, then going back to do it again, forever without end. Why smart?"

He's serious. "The boulder was enchanted, as was the hill," he answers distractedly. "Sisyphus guessed correctly that Zeus gave them judgment, so the boulder would know exactly when and where to roll away on the hill, so he asked them what, in their judgement, he should do."

Dean brushes a kiss against his jaw, tongue flickering to lick against the grain of the beginnings of stubble, before easing back enough for each word to puff against the wet skin. "What did they tell him?"

What did the boulder and the hill tell Sisyphus: yes, of course, why not. "The bounder told him this: in Zeus' absence, enjoy the Fields as you will while I rest and enjoy stillness as is my nature, for I am not meant to constantly roll, and the hill hates us both for we disturb its tranquility and rub its sides raw. To please us all, we will do this; the hill will speak to the land so as to know when Zeus comes and it will tell me. I will warn you to return, so that when he arrives you may push me for his pleasure up the hill and follow me back down before the summit is reached until he goes away again."

Dean licks a line down his throat. "Did that work?"

"Of course it did," he answers dreamily as Dean's mouth skims over the wet skin, stubble scratching in electric sparks, and tips his head back in offer. "Zeus was an idiot; who else would inflict an eternal punishment on a clever man by making the boulder and the hill that would be his punishment as clever as he? All that was needed was reasonable discussion and all was well between them."

He stills at the faint scrape of teeth before Dean bites down just below his jaw, quick and hard, and Castiel knots his fingers in Dean's shirt, rutting up against him encouragingly. Licking the bite luxuriantly, Dean pushes up to grin down at him.

"So," he says huskily, "Sisyphus wants to know what the boulder wants."

"You." 

Dean sucks in a breath, eyes darkening, and leans down for another kiss as Castiel pulls up Dean's shirt, breaking only so Castiel can pull it over his head,. Opening his mouth at the rough thrust of Dean's tongue, he tastes the low groan when he lazily slides a hand down his bare back, following the flex and ripple of muscle and glutting himself on the feel of smooth, warm skin.

If lust has no measure, want doesn't lack it: a matter of degrees denoting the shades of difference between passive interest and willingness to expend effort, defined by what he'll do to have it. It's almost mathematical in its precision if not in execution, and if there are things wanted that he can't have, none have risen any higher than vague disappointment, quickly forgotten. At least, not until now.

"Let's," Dean whispers raggedly, tugging at the hem of his shirt, "get this off you."

Obediently (he does know how to be, when sufficient motivation is provided), he stretches his arms above his head, easing his knee higher and draping it over Dean's hip as Dean checks his motion, licking already wet lips glossy as he looks down at him. 

"Jesus Christ," he breathes thickly, eyes sliding down his body as if he can't look away. 

"You've seen it before," he reminds him, breath catching in his throat as Dean jerks the cotton up and over his head and arms in a single motion. "Or so your complaints regarding when I leave the shower without warning seemed to imply."

"And that was very stupid of me," Dean murmurs absently, bending down and licking a line from the center of his chest to the base of his throat. "Not that it stopped you, and I appreciate it. Except that fucking towel." Dean bites his chin. "I want to see what I missed."

 _I want_. "As you wish." Dean sits back on his heels, reaching for the loose waist of Castiel's sweatpants. "Provided the courtesy is returned, of course."

Swallowing, Dean nods, and he watches through half-closed eyes as Dean starts to pull them and the loose boxer-briefs down, lifting his hips as needed, and tries not to smile as Dean fumbles the cotton before tossing them off the bed. What does Dean see when he looks at him: he doesn't care, provided that Dean always looks at him like this, as if what he sees pleases him beyond measure, tongue wetting his lower lip absently; it's forever here.

It takes two attempts before he can remember how to speak, and another to do so in English. "Reciprocation…would be appreciated."

"Sorry," Dean murmurs, grinning unapologetically when he meets Castiel's eyes before pushing off his heels. "Just enjoying the view."

Almost hesitantly, the long fingers ghosting uncertainly over the elastic clinging to his hips before tugging everything down in a single, too-fast motion that makes him grit his teeth in profound regret (he sympathizes; he's made that mistake as well, sadly more than once). Once they're discarded, Dean gives him a challenging smirk, almost inviting commentary.

Who is he to deny Dean whatever he may desire? "You are--"

"You quote hippofucker, I'm out of here," he lies, but the faint, probably unconscious tension fades entirely, though the flush remains, spreading down to his chest. "What?" He glances down uncertainly, then at Castiel, and belatedly, he realizes he's been silent for a very long time. "Not like you haven't seen it before. While giving me a fucking _report_ and telling me it's okay, _almost_ jerking me off didn't make me less straight. What the hell was that about?"

"It was very stupid of me," he agrees, wondering if he ever looked at Dean before or simply imagined he had. If there has been any alteration to Dean's body since his fever began, he can only assume the healing process has compensated for the single exception of the scarring of his right arm by being of immense benefit to the rest. Dean's habit of running the perimeter of Chitaqua is to be lauded, if the stretch of muscle in his thighs is any indication of its good work, narrow hips and flat stomach--exercise truly works miracles--chest and arms sculpted by an artist to create an impossible ideal who then decided to surpass that with a face without flaw and a mouth worth a war or two in his name.

He drops his gaze to Dean's cock; the artist was also sadistic if he had a lover who must look upon that and be forced to compare. Functionality is the most important criteria, of course, but aesthetics in this case are….satisfactory indeed.

Lust is indiscriminate (and stupid beyond the telling) but it does in this case possess superlative taste. Want, however…it is selective, he knew, but the criteria has changed and perhaps the scale by which degree can be measured. He wanted Dean when he smiled and laughed and argued and scowled his displeasure, miserably sick in his bed, when he'd watch Dean sleep, unwilling to look away for fear the fever would take him away, when he'd count every breath while remembering the eternity that they had stopped. He wants Dean now and the measure can only be defined as 'more', but it has nothing at all to do with whatever quality or lack thereof there may or not be in how he looks; his beauty is beyond compare whatever skin he may wear. He could look at Dean forever and never grow bored.

Dean's reaction to his own reflection in the bathroom soon after the fever was baffling, and even with context, he couldn't reconcile it with what he saw when he looked at him. Nor did his understanding improve in time; once Dean's strength was sufficient for his purposes (he'd be careful, of course), the only barrier to taking him to bed immediately was the presumption of Dean's disinclination in participation.

He thinks: I was very stupid, yes.

 _I want._ Before him is everything, the only thing he wants. "You're not that bad."

Dean's eyes widen, mouth falling open in shock.

"Let's have sex," he adds conscientiously, reproducing Dean's precise inflection from memory. "You were right; my pick-up line could stand considerable improvement."

"You're such an asshole. Hold up," he mutters cryptically, groping to the left before coming up with the bottle of lotion and fumbling it open. "So we're not giving this back."

"I think Alison would appreciate it if we didn't," he agrees, watching the thin lotion pool in Dean's palm before he reaches between them. Bracing himself doesn't help at all; the tentative brush of Dean's fingers is electric. Sucking in a breath, he feels Dean still briefly and has just enough time to wonder if he should begin his prepared discussion on the vagaries of human sexuality in modern times (Kinsey might be a useful reference) when Dean's hand wraps around his cock and he realizes he's grinning as if--he's not sure, but watching Dean jerk him off he _is_ sure will end this far too quickly.

"Later," he breathes when Dean seems content to linger, and now is very good, but it's nothing compared to the stretch of warm flesh against his own, feeling each caught breath and groan. "Come _here_."

Green eyes nearly black, Dean swallows, frozen for a long moment before hastily wiping the remaining lotion on his own cock and nearly falling before Castiel catches him. They both catch their breaths as Dean's cock slots into place beside his own, sliding slickly together in the tight, hot space between their bodies. Shuddering, Dean drops his head against his shoulder, rocking experimentally and finding it shockingly good. "God, Cas."

"Say it again," he murmurs against the fragile shell of Dean's ear, fingers digging into the strong muscles of Dean's shoulder with every slow thrust.

"God--" He gasps, shuddering, when Castiel drags his nails down the length of his back to the curve of his ass. " _Cas._ "

"Good." Wrapping a leg around Dean's hips, he matches Dean's rhythm, closing his eyes as the sparks of pleasure join into a current, strengthening with each stroke against his cock. Dean's breathing speeds up accordingly, mouth resting against his shoulder before traveling to his neck, lingering against the sensitive skin at the junction of throat and shoulder before sucking a kiss, lingering until Castiel forgets how to breathe, the shock of pain almost as good as the feel of Dean's cock.

Curving his palm to the shape of Dean's ass, he arches against him, the low burning pressure growing at the base of his spine, sparking across his nerves and intensifying wherever they touch. Knotting his fingers in Dean's hair, he pulls him up with a growl, wanting to glimpse the want in the green eyes as much as taste that swollen mouth. Dean gives him both and more, reaching for Castiel's thigh and pulling it up to his waist-- _perfect_ \--mouth hungry and almost brutal, claiming for itself all within its demesne.

Panting, Dean withdraws only enough for gasped air but no farther, forehead pressed against his own. "Cas," he whispers, twisting his hips and sending a shock through Castiel's body he can feel vibrating in his teeth. "Yeah, gotta-- _Cas_ , come _on_." The hand on his thigh strokes soothing, and distantly, he realizes he's trembling, and the gasps he can hear aren't just Dean's. 

Fingers stroke with impossible tenderness through his hair, at odds with roughening thrust of Dean's hips, frantic and control clutched at by a thread. "That's it," Dean whispers brokenly, moaning against his jaw. "Come on, Cas. I got you."

Castiel opens his eyes. " _Dean_."

It's never the same, no, but it's never been like this; a wire turned too-tightly that doesn't loosen at the final twist but _snaps_ with a crack running the length of his spine, orgasm flooding every nerve in an endless sweep. Arching off the bed, he reflexively locks his leg around Dean, fingers spread between his shoulderblades on sweat-slick skin to keep him where he is, and Dean gasps with a spread of wet heat between them before going boneless against him.

He loses himself in the sheer glut of sensation, wallowing in pure sensory overload, physical tension release and chemical flood intensified by the feel of the man in his arms, dragging it out and out for all of time: amen, indeed.

* * *

Eventually, Dean makes a vague effort to move, though from what Castiel can ascertain, he's not sure which muscles to use, and they're equally bewildered if they should want to work. 

"Christ," Dean mutters against his neck, then gives up, melting back against him with a sigh. There's no particular motivation for anyone to move; Castiel would be content to remain like this for the rest of his mortal life (if he were still immortal, all of Time would be insufficient, but it would have to do). There's a vague sense of motion before Dean asks, "So--you gonna let me go?"

"No."

Despite that, he lessens the pressure against Dean's back when he pushes against it, but Dean only braces himself on his elbows, looking down at him in drowsy satisfaction. "Not too bad."

"I appreciate your feedback," he answers lazily. "Was the period of time after you fainted too short--"

"I didn't," Dean growls, trying to loom and achieving nothing like it, "faint."

"Then I must compliment your thespian aspirations," he murmurs, unable to help smiling at Dean's inadequate attempt at a glare. "You were very convincing."

"You." Dean doesn't pretend there was supposed to be a sentence attached, leaning down for a kiss with the careless certainty of someone who knows themselves welcome. Dean always kisses him as if there's nothing else worth doing, slow and deep and rich, drowning. He hasn't left their bed without the taste of Dean on his tongue since the first night they shared it, and he has no intention of that ever changing. 

Dean's slow stokes across his hip and down his thigh checks as he reaches the knee still locked around his waist. "You're gonna get a cramp if you keep that up."

"I won't," he answers, eyes half-closing at the sensual pleasure of Dean's skin against his own. "Kamal was a strict instructor in yoga and could tell at a glance who wasn't adhering to his regime, so I keep in practice. He never said anything," he adds with a frown. "Yet his judgment could be felt, and no amount of alcohol or drugs seemed to help until I'd completed my routine twice. At which time, it would finally go away."

Dean blinks at him. "How _the hell_ did I miss you doing that?"

"Dawn," he explains with a moue of distaste. "Before the advent of coffee, it was literally the only thing that made mornings less utterly miserable. While you were ill after the fever broke, Kamal and Mira would join me on the porch and do them with me, as Vera said…." He stops, startled; he's never spoken to anyone of this, even the other participants. "She'd open the window, however. So I could listen."

"To her--doing whatever she was doing with me?"

"To you breathe."

Dean leans down for a warm brush of lips. "You know, I never thought about how much that sucked for you. Other than the taking care of me twenty-four/seven part."

"It was a privilege." He's not sure anyone but Vera understood that. He learned everything she would teach him, reading the books she offered and searching his vast memory for all it could tell him of what Dean might need, what would make him more comfortable. Dean's skeptical look, however, isn't a surprise; humans are often like this. Threading his fingers through Dean's hair, he tries to smooth the short strand with indifferent success. "However, I think it was worse for you than for me."

Dean snorts. "Not so sure about that."

"After the fever broke, when Vera went to her rest, I would sit by your bed and there I would stay for the night and listen to you breathe. And through the night, I would stop hearing it and panic….and realize I'd been asleep only when I woke up." Dean makes a face. "Linear time moves at a monotonous rate, I could track its progress--but no matter the quantity, it was always forever. And when I would think--I would think I could not bear it a moment longer--you would open your eyes.

"And there was joy, beyond anything I'd ever known," he whispers. "Forever, what is that, it's _nothing_ , a moment, a drop within infinity-- _nothing_ , when I was rewarded with that. Your pain and misery I would spare you, but mine--it is _mine_ , and I would trade none of it for any price, for without it, I would not have that joy." He tilts his head against the mattress, studying Dean's expression (interesting). "You enjoyed none of it, which could only be remedied slowly as your health returned, which took weeks. I, on the other hand, could for a single moment experience sheer, unadulterated exaltation without any effort on my part at least once a day and very often more."

Dean shuts his mouth with an audible click of teeth.

"For reasons that must be obvious, it wasn't something I felt needed to be shared during that dark and difficult time," he adds, wetting his lips and memorizing Dean's expression for a more appropriate time for uncontrolled laughter. "I didn't think you would understand."

* * *

He blinks lazily at the wet splat of the washcloth against his stomach; at least it's warm, which was something of a question when Dean went (stalked) out the door. Dean didn't bother with more than a pair of sweatpants (his, Castiel notes in satisfaction) for his hasty trip to the bathroom, preserving just enough modesty not to cause laughter should he be intercepted by Alison (or Teresa, though experience suggests she would at least wait until within the safety of her and Alison's bedroom before indulging herself).

"Thank you, Dean," he says politely, which makes Dean's eyes narrow suspiciously. "I appreciate your consideration."

Ignoring him, Dean crawls onto the bed and straddles his thighs, glaring at him for a long moment before knocking his hand away from the washcloth and taking it himself. Despite his less than even temper at the moment (he doesn't smile, but the effort is enormous), Dean's remarkably gentle, cleaning the away the last traces of recent events without irritating supersensitized skin. 

Thorough as well: letting his eyes fall closed, Castiel concentrates on the sensual slide of the wet cloth against his skin, slow and careful, methodical in its journey from his belly to dip between his thighs. Arching into each languorous stroke, he braces a heel against the mattress and stretches lazily, his fingertips brushing the headboard before he relaxes every muscle at once and falls bonelessly into the comfort of the mattress, enjoying the texture of the quilt beneath his back.

(He has, on rare occasions (very stoned, very drunk, and post-coital), admitted the possibility that the benefits of the corporeal form more than compensate for the drawbacks. There's so much to feel, in variety endless, and none of them are ever the same twice.)

With a sigh, he slits his eyes open to see Dean frozen, washcloth in hand and staring at him with glazed eyes. "Hmm?"

"Just." He looks down at the washcloth blankly, like he's forgotten he's holding it, getting up (a pity) to dispose of it before returning to the bed. Reluctantly, Castiel pushes himself up to drag back the covers and sheets with the least amount of movement necessary, pulling his legs up against his chest to slide them between the layers of smooth cotton before twisting on his side to see Dean--still standing by the bed. "Yoga?"

"The health benefits are quantifiable," he explains, tucking an arm under his head and watching Dean join him, tugging the sheet and quilt up around them against the chill of the night. "Why?"

Dean stares at him. "You ever watched yourself?"

"Of course," he answers, pulling the pillow marginally closer. "Exhibitionistic tendencies aside--which were admittedly something of a surprise--humans are a highly visual species, and in this body, so am I. Observation of other people's reactions made me curious. Watching myself holds no particular interest for me, so I assume their pleasure is on par with my enjoyment of watching them."

Dean's startled expression melts into laughter, and lying down, he reaches casually to palm Castiel's hip, tugging him unresistingly closer. "Just saying, give you a washcloth and boom, home pornography."

"You were the one applying it," he answers. "I'll give you a bath one day."

"What?" Dean starts to look alarmed. "Why?"

He raises an eyebrow. "I have no idea what about that scenario could possibly be questionable in either intent or result."

This close, there's no possible way to turn away to hide the hot flush. "Bathe me?"

"Slowly," he agrees, watching the rich color deepen. "Hot water, so you'll relax, then you'll sit very still while I wash you, and only move when I tell you so I can be thorough in my ministrations. And I shall be thorough beyond words to describe."

Dean seems unconvinced as well as very, very red. "Uh."

"Self-consciousness is the result of worrying about how others see you and fearing ridicule," he explains. "That won't be a problem. I'll be the only observer and I like looking at you, and however you move will be at my will and therefore be pleasing to me. There's no possible way you could do anything wrong, so there would be no reason for you to worry. You'll enjoy yourself, and I'll enjoy you." He runs his tongue over his upper lip, considering what oils he currently possesses. "Assuming you can obey me, of course."

The bright color fades, green eyes darkening as the swollen pink lips part for a quick breath.

"I suppose we'll find out," he murmurs with a slow smile and starts laughing when Dean shoves him onto his back, reaching down between them to stroke his half-hard cock. "Excellent timing: I was just about to suggest--"

"Shut up," Dean growls, but he's laughing, too, before groaning again, shoving the blankets away and sitting back on his heels, straddling Castiel's thighs. "Apprehensive, right?"

"Perhaps," he starts as Dean reaches for his cock again, fitting his fingers around it with utterly unnecessary care. "Perhaps I was wrong. About--"

Dean flexes his fingers experimentally before tightening them again at the base, calluses rough in contrast to the smoother, hard flesh at the base of the fingers and the heel. The green eyes come up, fixing on Castiel's face as he slowly slides his hand up in a long stroke.

"--that," he finishes huskily.

"Apprehensive, that was the word. Get used to the idea, right? Didn't want to scare me." Punctuated with another long stroke, adding a thumb circling the head curiously. "Right, Cas?"

He nods automatically, already knowing that won't be sufficient. "Right." Then, "I was wrong."

"Maybe you were, maybe you weren't," Dean allows kindly, rewarding him with another stroke, fingers tightening and loosening without rhythm in deliberate tease. "Doesn't matter: future reference, gonna tell you how to deal with it." Letting go, Dean holds his eyes while deliberately licking his palm in long, shiny wet streaks before reaching for Castiel's cock again, and the first wet slide brings him off the bed. "Show you. Or you show me, actually."

Gripping the sheets, Castiel breathes through the endless glide, pressure varying until Dean finds the perfect one. Then--for no reason at all--he _stops_. "Dean--"

"Got your attention?" Opening his eyes, he sees Dean cruelly letting go and _no_. "Cas?"

"You have," he grates out, "my undivided attention."

"Good." Licking his hand again, Dean begins to stroke, pressure perfect, testing rhythm and speed. "Like I was saying, you show me." He smiles when Castiel gasps. "Show me exactly what I want. And why…" He leans down, and Castiel watches his pink tongue lick the head of his cock clean in a white noise of hot pleasure. "Why I should want it."

Panting, he nods helplessly.

"So you're gonna show me now," Dean says, licking his lips and stroking steadily. "I'm gonna get you off and watch you while I do it. I can already tell you I like it, but no reason not to be sure. Repetition, it works." The smug grin is unbearably attractive at this moment. "Your--right, _feedback_ would be appreciated."


	6. Chapter 6

_\--Day 152--_

They're all the same; lights out, all's silent on the western front, everyone's home, and no one's fucking sleeping tonight. Hiding like rats and hoping what they don't see and pretend didn't happen will buy them safety with two dead bodies come morning.

"Fuck all of you," he says, pulling his gun and starting up toward the cabin; he'll take care of this shit himself, one bullet at a time. 

He's halfway there when the sound of gunfire shatters the night, and he breaks into a dead run, but he already knows he was too late again. Shadows rise from the bleak remains of shrubbery, faceless bodies with mocking smiles, but they vanish before he can get a shot off, and he can't take the time anyway, because maybe, maybe--

He nearly falls on the rotting steps, bursting through the beads in a headlong stumble and hits the floor on his knees, but the burst of pain's forgotten at the sight of Cas--

"No."

\--sprawled on the floor by the buffet table, face hidden under bloody hair.

Stumbling to his feet, he makes his way toward the table and dropping to his knees in the spreading pool of still-warm blood. Desperately, he pulls Cas into his lap, but the blue eyes are blank, staring, and he's already stealing the warmth from Dean's hands, growing colder by the second. "No, Cas, please, _please_ …."

\-- _where were you, why weren't you here, why did you let them do this_ \--

"I didn't know," he whispers. "I wouldn't have let you, Cas. They're not worth it."

Lifting his head, he looks around the silent room of people, cowering behind tables and chairs, and wonders if they're relieved, if they thought a thing, a monster, was killed here today and they were safe. Look in the mirror, they'd never see the monster hidden by their human skin. Searching the faces of the men surrounding them, he reads their satisfaction and fading fear, seeing their good work done so well while standing in his blood. 

This is what they are, he remembers in surprise. They screamed and they cried and howled it was unfair, like their bloody hands had ever been clean. Scream and scream and _scream_ , like they could understand, but they didn't get it; why should they keep it when they didn't even know what it was? Look what they did with it when they had it; they sure as hell didn't deserve it.

Numbly, he eases Cas back to the floor, stroking one blood-streaked cheek in silent apology for not being here this time, either. Focusing on the thing kneeling only feet away, still holding a gun, sharp clarity washes away the confusion of pain and grief and loss, a wound that won't ever heal, not for the length of his life; all gone, but the rage--that he keeps. That, he never gave up.

Licking his lips, he tastes blood, metal-sharp salt, and thinks: you want to be a monster, I'll show you how it's done.

"It took thirty years to break me," he says, easing to his feet, jeans and boots soaked in fresh blood. "What was ripped out of me in pieces, gutted alive over and over until it was gone, I lost forever, even my name. There was no getting it back, I knew that, but I didn't want it once I understood. Only way," he adds, stepping over the body at his feet, "to take payment for it, and I wanted it all, paid in full with everything, until the end of Time, and that's just to start." He glances at the body on the floor. "You know the price of his life?"

The thing stares up at him in dawning fear, bewilderment, like it's never looked in the mirror, seen the monster there, hiding behind its human face. "I don't--"

"Of course not; you knew not what you did? They always say that." He looks between the five things, seeing startled recognition, wariness: welcome to the party and way too goddamn late. "Do you know who I am? Say it."

The thing on the floor opens its mouth. "Dean--Dean Winchester."

"Wrong: Dean Winchester saw his partner dead on this floor from a bullet to the head. He'd kill you himself, but he took it all back, so he can't take full payment. I can, and sweetheart, I don't have a name. I created myself." He smiles at them. "The price is this: everything, forever, and here's how it starts."

Flexing his hand, he feels the hilt settle in his palm, familiar. The blade is both sharp and dull, stained with old blood that still drips fresh and new, and the screaming's just begun and it's never, ever gonna stop again.

Still smiling, he slits the thing kneeling before him open from throat to bulging gut before slicing him from hip to hip, stepping back to appreciate the spill of organs, glossy intestines like ropes streaked in bright new blood as he collapses forward, hands grasping helplessly at his own stomach and screaming like he's never gonna stop.

Which is true; he's not.

"Do you hear it?" he asks rhetorically, kicking the writhing thing out of his way and pausing long enough to grin into a pair of horrified brown eyes before ripping out its vulnerable throat. Tossing the ruined chunk of bleeding flesh, he clenches his fist around it, sealing all the doors and windows before the frantic masses can reach them, watching them claw desperately and the burning stone and screaming when the blackened remains of their hands crumble into ash. "Might help if you knelt already," he offers, then snaps their legs off at the knee, and the _screaming_ , he's _missed_ this. "Too late. I lied anyway; it wouldn't have helped. I just like to see it."

Piling the sundered limbs as neatly as logs in the center of the room, he tosses the lump of flesh on top and tries to decide what to do next. There's so fucking _much_ , but--crossing back to Cas's body, he drops into a crouch, wiping the blood from his cheek and licking his thumb clean.

"It'll be fine," he assures him, allowing himself one last touch. "There's nowhere they can take you that I won't find you. I'll be right there, just gotta deal with this first. And then--" He laughs softly, pushing himself to his feet: no one's ever done what he's gonna do. "I'll teach you everything, you'll love it, promise. First, though--gotta get you ready so you can learn how. He forgot that part; I won't."

The ripple of familiar power long left unclaimed returns in a gust of dry, dead air and rotting, living, screaming pain, forming the Pit of Hell on earth in all its horror. "Tick-tock, I'm on the clock, people, so let's get this show on the road." Flipping the knife, he grins into their terrified eyes. "So who's first?"

* * *

He wakes with a gasp, his hand fisting helplessly for a hilt that's not there. _Do you hear it?_

"Dean?"

That's his name. Right.

Sucking in a breath, Dean unclenches his hand, stroking down the warm skin of Cas's back beneath his t-shirt. "Yeah, sorry."

Easing away enough to push himself up on an elbow, Cas searches his face. "Another dream?"

"I guess," he answers honestly, wondering why it's so quiet and wondering why the hell he's wondering that, why he expected--something else. "I don't remember."

"Congratulations?"

"Let's go with that, yeah." Tugging Cas back down, he goes in for a kiss, relaxing at the taste and feel, familiar and still new. Threading his fingers through the dark hair, Dean leans back against the pillow to just look at him, trying to believe this is happening. Cas's eyes fall half-closed with a faint smile, leaning into it, and Dean thinks how much he still has to learn about someone he knows better than himself. He's looking forward to it; he wants all of it, everything he can get.

That smile, Christ: happy. He makes Cas _happy_. He's never made anyone happy in his life. He didn't even know he _could_ , but even he can't write off the evidence when it's half on top of him, practically purring because Cas really likes to be touched and as it turns out, Dean really likes doing it. Evidence (by the way) that wants to give him a _bath_ (Hot, and wash him. Slowly); you can't make that shit up. It's gotta be true.

Resting his head on his hand, Cas studies him for a long moment. "Did you pack my socks?" 

What? "I did the packing, Mr. My Laptop And I Need A Moment Alone, so yeah." And hey, while they're on the subject. "Gonna tell you now: you're this close to cheating on me with your laptop and that's bullshit. Feelings count."

Cas raises an eyebrow. "You'll leave me if I spend too much time with my laptop?"

"Of course not," he scoffs; like that's gonna ever happen. "Shoot it, burn it, bury it in the middle of the camp as an example, and you're on the couch for a couple of nights to think about what you've done."

Cas frowns at him (not disapproval, exactly). "That sounds unsettlingly like a plan in which you've invested an excessive amount of thought."

"Does it?" He shrugs (a couple of rounds from the AK-47, maybe follow-up with a .22; burial by the new mess under salt (why take any chances here), where everyone has to walk by it and know he is not to be crossed. Yeah, he's crazy, might as well just own that shit and move the fuck on. Not like he needs the stress of uncertainty in his life; he's got enough stress, thanks). "What about your socks? Dude, you wear 'em every night. You're wearing them right now." 

Because Dean (who makes Cas happy: _really_?) got them off the floor and put them on his feet after round two (and again after round three). He's getting this relationship thing _down_.

"Yes, but…." He makes a face (yeah, no idea). "Thank you."

Dean smirks. "Thought I'd forget?"

"I didn't think you…." That pause is the stuff of novels in dead languages (which Cas speaks, so). "Noticed."

Now that's interesting. "The socks, you wearing them, or where they were?"

"I'm not sure," Cas confesses, frown deepening. "I'm not even sure why I mentioned it."

"You're weird."

"So sayeth he who thinks plumbing is a job best accomplished without daylight. Speaking of, feeling any inclination toward home repair at the moment?" Cas asks curiously, draping one long leg over Dean's thighs beneath the blankets in what he's gonna guess is supposed to be a hint (no, for those playing the home game).

"Nope." Though that doesn't leave him with a lot of options; it's not like that's his first choice activity when he's exhausted and could be sleeping. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Three hours and twenty minutes before true dawn," Cas answers softly, fingers skimming up his cheek against the stubble with a faint smile. "You should sleep."

God, he wishes. "Eh."

Cas laughs softly. "Or simply lie there and do nothing at all," he whispers, pressing his forehead against Dean's for a moment, and Dean's liking this plan, especially the part where Cas kisses him again. Eyes falling closed, he opens his mouth at the gentle coax of Cas's tongue, rousing him just enough to drape am arm over Cas's shoulders, gathering the cotton of Cas's t-shirt loosely between his fingers in case he gets the idea he should stop or something.

The mattress barely shifts, but that's enough for someone who's lived with Cas to not be surprised when the weight of the blankets and sheet vanish, and Dean opens his eyes on a smile to see Cas's body balanced above him, knees just touching Dean's hips and almost but not touching anywhere else.

He thinks of commenting on stealth ex-angels (and how he isn't eighteen anymore no matter how much his body tries to convince him otherwise) but Cas stretches lazily, lifting his head and through the mess of dark hair the blue eyes meet his like a punch: for a moment, he can smell salt and ozone, an infinite ocean stretching forever around him and surrounded by a storm as vast as the universe in infinite expansion, shots of brilliance like the birth and heat death of a billion stars. 

Relaxing back into the mattress, he hopes that works to get the point across because words don't happen when you're staring into infinity. There's a sense of hesitation before Cas kisses him, and Dean opens up for it unthinkingly, because Cas may need an example of what you do when you see a cliff, and it's not and will never be stop.

Time slows into a warm-honey crawl, the world narrowing to the tiny, infinite stretch of this room, this bed, Cas; the taste of Cas on his lips, the barely-there pressure to tip his head back against the pillow as Cas's mouth settles under his ear and the liquid warmth of his tongue dragging endlessly down his throat. Curving around his shoulder, Cas slides his palm the length of Dean's arm in a barely-there caress before closing around his wrist, tugging Dean's hand free from his t-shirt and drawing his arm down, lacing their fingers together against the mattress just above Dean's head.

Dean's got just enough sense left to stop himself from moving his other arm, anticipation building along his nerves until Cas's fingers close loosely around his wrist, catching his breath when Cas bends down to brush a lingering kiss against the palm before threading their fingers together and easing it over Dean's head. Tongue sliding over his upper lip--Jesus, Cas, really not helping--he shifts his weight just enough to push Dean's hands back against the mattress before unthreading their fingers and pulls back, cool gaze evaluating him dispassionately; Dean doesn't move.

"Good," Cas says huskily, like the drag of fresh stubble over bare skin and Dean would do a hell of a lot more to keep hearing that. Sliding his hand behind Dean's head, he leans in for another drugging kiss that ends as he lowers Dean's head to the bare mattress, location of pillow don't care. "I want to look at you," he says in the exact same tone he uses to discuss new ways to organize the pantry. "If I want you to move, I'll move you myself. Do you understand?"

Fuck, _words_. "Yeah," and is honestly fucking surprised to hear his own voice.

Cas slides Dean's t-shirt up and over his head greyish cotton blur, and he's still processing that when his sweatpants are pulled down his legs and off his feet before he realizes Cas even moved. Superpowers or he's losing time: he doesn't care. Trying not to pant, he concentrates on not moving as Cas spreads his legs, calloused fingers rough as they trail up the unbelievably sensitive skin of his inner thighs, then long fingers circle his ankle, bending his knee against the mattress. He should be a lot more surprised (read: _seriously_ ) that he's well past half-hard, reddened, oversensitive skin broadcasting its own shock this is happening, but important brain power is being used to stay still, and everything else is gonna have to wait.

Despite his best efforts, Dean can't stop the image of what he must look like right now from forming wholesale in his mind and feels the resulting heat flash across his face like a forest fire, which doesn't help at all; humiliation isn't a good look for anyone. He hopes (to God; why not?) that Cas doesn't notice.

Then all he can think about is the warmth of Cas's mouth against the inside of his knee, barely a brush of skin ghosting a trail over the shivering skin and pausing at the crease joining his groin. He's so distracted by soft hair brushing against his balls that he's too shocked to react at all when Cas sinks his teeth into muscle and skin and that's just to start.

He's still feeling it when Cas meets his eyes and goes down on him in a single effortless wet slide, and Dean hits overload at terminal velocity. He forgets how to stop himself from moving, so good thing he couldn't right now if he had a knife to his throat; the wet flicker of Cas's tongue dragging the underside and curling obscenely around the sensitized head, the quick, brutal scrape of teeth, there and gone before Dean can realize what it is, and Cas's thumb pressing hard against forming bruise on his inner thigh consume his attention; if he's breathing, he'll be surprised.

Cas stares into his eyes, all he can see, drowning blue spilling over an endless sky dotted with points of light winking into existence before his eyes. It's forever here, but that's not long enough, and the world opens up under him, slamming into orgasm stripped out of ever goddamn cell, sparkling electricity backfiring along every nerve in aftershocks.

Vaguely, Dean's aware of Cas reaching for his left hand, and the feel of something soft and wet on his palm eventually connects to Cas's tongue. Forcing his eyes open again, he catches the last few seconds of Cas's obscenely pink tongue slide the length of Dean's fingers before wrapping Dean's hand around his cock with a catch of breath Dean will never forget. Covering Dean's hand with his own, he slides his fingers between Dean's and pins them both to Dean's stomach before he starts to thrust.

"You have no idea," Cas breathes against Dean's mouth, then breaks off to suck a kiss against the sensitive skin at the join of neck and shoulder, the hollow of his throat. Threading his fingers through Dean's hair, he jerks his head back, holding his eyes and sucks in a breath, stilling, and the hot spill across his belly and chest sets off a sympathetic shudder along his overstressed nerves. 

Cas's head drops against his shoulder, and Dean doesn't think he'll ever want to move again.

* * *

He may not be certain where his legs are--or if they exist--but the slight shift of the mattress gets his full attention, warning him of terrible things to come and proved one hundred percent right when Cas levers himself up and that means _leaving_.

He remembers just in time not to move, opening to the warmth of Cas's mouth, but he can't quite stop the niggling worry of where this is leading because it's nowhere good. This time, Cas retreats again, but no farther than the mattress beside him, leaning his head on one hand before dragging his fingers down Dean's chest and belatedly, Dean realizes what he's doing. Wet fingers trail over his stomach, slow and almost careful, leaving trails over the curve of his hip, low on his belly and his chest, circling one nipple, the coolness making it tighten, trailing back down to circle his navel before his thumb paints the second one as well. 

Seemingly satisfied, Cas's eyes flicker back to Dean's face, slick thumb sliding across Dean's lower lip, and without thinking, Dean darts out his tongue to lick the tip, tasting the faint, salt-bitter traces. Without hesitation, Cas slides his thumb between his lips, watching intently as Dean sucks it clean, scraping the tip between his teeth before letting it out of his mouth with wet sound and it's almost immediately replaced by two fingers, pressing firmly against his tongue and coating it with the taste of Cas's come.

Pulling his fingers free, Cas replaces them with his tongue, hot and good and over way too fast. "You have no idea how you look right now." 

He's right; Dean doesn't, and he wants to keep it that way, thanks.

"Like you're mine." Cas smiles down at him. "You couldn't look more perfect if you tried."

Direct, Vera said: she had no fucking idea.

"I need to get another blanket," Cas says, reaching over Dean's head and threading his fingers through Dean's before easing it down, brushing a kiss against Dean's knuckles before tucking it securely at his side. "It's too cold for you otherwise."

Logic: he hates logic. Reluctantly, he nods, and smiles at him before disappearing into the unknown territory that's not the bed. After way too long--or seconds, whatever--Cas is back, retrieving the sheet and blanket from the floor (how'd they get there?) and conscientiously spreading them before adding the extra blanket. It's nice and everything, but Cas is better than a blanket, and Dean's perfectly happy to let Cas handle logistics; he's pretty good at those. Tucking his face contentedly against Cas's chest, the feel of body-warm cotton reminds Cas never actually undressed and Dean could--in theory--send Cas to get his clothes.

"Go to sleep," Cas says, pressing a kiss to his temple and curling around Dean more securely, and that's the last thing Dean hears before he's out.

* * *

There is nothing--and he does mean _nothing_ \--natural about getting up before the sun. A side effect of life lived as a hunter is that they generally do their best work at night, and it's not that Dean can't do mornings--he can--but that doesn't mean he wants to, and if someone wants to actually interact with him, it's on their own head what happens next. 

He wants to believe Cas was exaggerating that day he explained why he was now handling morning patrol and letting Dean sleep in, but if he's honest with himself, Cas was probably downplaying the probable meanderingly passive-aggressive horror. Dean's not a morning person, let's just get it out there, and everyone's just gonna have to deal.

This absolute truth, however, is considerably shaken by being in Alison's kitchen an hour before dawn, squinting at the coffee pot while still wet from the shower and more awake than he can ever remember being in his entire life. Despite his best efforts to concentrate (on the drip of coffee), it's a losing battle; his entire attention is focused on the faint sounds of the running shower thirty feet and a hall away, where Cas is finishing up and Dean should definitely, definitely still be.

Coffee, he reminds himself firmly before he gets more than three steps (new record: he was halfway across the living room last time), leaning back against the table, breath catching at the slide of soft cotton boxer-briefs against the hypersensitive skin of his cock like sandpaper. 

Gritting his teeth, he tries to ignore the spark of heat that follows, pooling low and warm in his belly, but that works just about as well as reminding himself he's twenty fucking years from the age where getting off a few times a day was normal or for that matter, something he could even physically _do_. Reality begs to disagree, and in case he could possibly doubt it, review the last eight and change hours of his life, it'll wait.

Even now he can't settle; pushing off the table, he's hit with the faint sting from the scratches down his back, the throb of pain from the bruise high on his inner thigh, the unaccustomed ache of muscles just as startled as Dean by this turn of events and telling him all about it. There's an itch like a charge running just beneath the surface of his skin that makes him hyperaware of each brush of fabric, restless, constant, and the only thing at this moment that's keeping him out of that bathroom is he doesn't trust his cock not to forget it can't get hard again ( _how?_ ), and one more round means he won't be able to wear pants or possibly walk. 

It would really help, he reflects fatalistically, if he could actually care and not just assume that he probably should. 

The sound of tentative knocking on the door is almost a relief; it stops him just as he reaches the doorway of the hall. "Come in," he says, and convinces himself he doesn't resent whoever that is and God help them.

Amanda pokes her head in, blue eyes fixing on him warily. "Morning," she says, easing in the door like she's hoping he won't notice or something. "How's it going?"

He's not in the shower with Cas and it's still almost an hour until dawn: that's a hard one. "Great," he says, smiling (he assumes, by her lack of flinch). "You want some coffee?"

"Uh." She blinks at him for a moment before nodding. "Sure?"

"Awesome." Turning, he returns to the kitchen and gets out three cups, noting those discarded in the sink and making a mental note to do his good-guest thing and do the dishes when they're done. In a show of--something--Alison's building, like a lot of Ichabod, donated half their allotment of food to the mess to stretch out the food supply, so if they want breakfast, he'll have to go get it from the mess. Or--he is, technically, Chitaqua's leader--order someone to do that for him. "Cream and sugar?"

"Black, one sugar," she responds uncertainly, taking it with a weird look when he comes back the living room before perching in the armchair to the left of the coffee table. "Thanks."

Sitting down on the couch, he leans forward to set the third cup on the coffee table and opens his mouth to ask how everything's going--whatever everything is, probably important?--and just manages to swallow a hiss at the sharp flare of pain up the thick muscle of his inner thigh when he starts to spread his knees. For an endless moment, he can feel Cas's mouth against his bare skin, body memory intense enough that it could be happening right now.

"Dean?"

Jesus Christ. "So--how's everything going?" he manages after taking a drink of coffee, not caring if he sounds normal just that words still work. "Anything--happening?"

Amanda lowers her cup and straightens, and belatedly, he realizes she's about to report and it's even odds how much of this he's going to understand, much less remember and he makes no promises on caring, ever. 

"Nothing since last night," she says. "Unless you count 'number of people' outside the entrance point, which has doubled despite the fact patrol's been working all night." He nods and takes a drink to show he's paying attention. "Alison's at Admin with Tony and Lanak working on logistics--the word 'terrifying' would be an understatement here--and Teresa's on west and Manuel east of the perimeter line, reviewing pretty much everything. Naresh's second Rohan is taking volunteers from town to help with crowd control; this is going beyond their regulars and they're exhausted." 

She pulls out a notebook from somewhere to brandish briefly for reasons unknown before setting it on the coffee table with an expectant look, and Dean takes another drink while staring at it to buy himself some time to work out why--oh, log book.

"Evelyn's got duty this morning and God help us both if that isn't returned to her before anyone needs to check in our out," Amanda adds, relaxing back into her chair and grinning at him over the edge of her cup. "Joe already checked with Glenn at the daycare, and he says Gary reports everything's fine and is thinking of getting a vasectomy."

Dean winces. "That bad?"

"And doing it himself," she adds. "With his own knife. Possibly within the next twenty-four hours if he has to deal with one more day of anyone under thirty because the twenties are too close to the teens." She shrugs. "There's no reason to keep him there now with Main restricted access even if--somehow--this is about them. No one gets into the town square but teachers, kids, patrol, the town council, the Alliance mayors, and me, you, Joe, and Cas."

He hesitates, taking another drink. "But--"

"Teresa locked the wards around the square," she interrupts, staring at her cup, and Dean freezes. "Before you ask, no one knew what she was planning, even Alison, not until she broke and raised the wards again last night and both Manuel and Alison felt it."

Dean swallows. "You're saying…."

"That they're up until either the symbol is unmade that locked them or she's dead?" Amanda asks, slumping in the chair. "Yeah, and before you ask, Manuel was out with a flashlight trying to find where she put the lock and can't find it. That's assuming she put it in the daycare and I seriously doubt it."

"So could be anywhere in the town." As long as she can connect them back to the wards, it doesn't matter where they are, and while he can't think how she'd manage that, he's also not a witch.

Amanda nods grimly. "She said--and it's true--that it won't take anything out of her unless the daycare is attacked, at which time it's her job to hold them. As you can imagine, that worked really well with Alison and Manuel, which is why Alison slept in her office and Teresa in hers in Admin last night."

Dean snorts a laugh despite himself. "Couldn't even stop fighting long enough to get back here so someone could storm out and sleep on the couch?"

"It's like you were there," she says with a sigh, shaking her head. "They made up this morning, loudly according to sources who are repressing the memory as best they can. So, Gary? We could really use him helping with perimeter duty."

"Yeah, let's pull him out," he agrees. "If anything's coming for the kids, Gary being there won't help."

The sound of the shower abruptly dominates his attention, the memory of wet tile against his back and sliding against it, Cas's low laughter rippling over his skin; for the life of him, he can't remember why he left.

"…Dean?" a voice asks uncertainly, and Dean snaps his gaze to Amanda frowning. "You okay?"

"Fine." Picking up the log book, he scans meaningless scribbles to show he's paying attention before closing it; actually, there is something he wants to know. "Anything else on the 'incident' in the mess?"

"All five are still recovering in the infirmary under guard," she answers soberly. 

"By Naresh's people?" She nods. "Who do we have?"

"Joe sent Brad and Lydia, check in every hour," she says. "Brad on the floor, Lydia downstairs being useful to Dolores in sight of the stairs. Though gonna tell you now, none of them are in any shape to walk, much less manage to sneak past Naresh's teams."

"Too bad we can't break their legs just to make sure," Dean says. "When do I get to question them again?"

"When homicide is off the table," she answers flatly, meeting his eyes. "Which will be never. I checked the Alliance agreement myself; soon as Dolores releases them, we have jurisdiction, whatever. And anyway, Dolores cleared them for an hour of questioning last night, and Alicia sat in when Naresh did it. There's a full recording--"

"I want it."

"Alicia's picking up a copy this morning from Admin," Amanda continues patiently. "Naresh only finished getting witness reports at the ass-end of dawn--there were a lot to get--and sent copies to us before going to bed himself, which I understand was when Rohan told Suma where he was and literally went to Admin and dragged him home. Alicia told me she'd have a full report for you before noon, just had a few more things to finish up."

Dean starts to ask why Alicia is doing it when he connects the lack of sun in their lives with working with Naresh all night. "She's up already?"

"This is Alicia," Amanda says in amusement. "If she sleeps, I can't prove it."

"Where is she now? Cas has something for her and her team as soon as we get some light. Probably need the bikes, but we'll use our gas." 

"Around," she answers vaguely, waving a hand. "She'll check in an hour past dawn at the latest, no worries." Grinning, she takes a drink of coffee. "I like the building, by the way. Should have enough room for everyone to sleep and not even in shifts if we don't have to. The jeeps had enough sleeping bags, but Walter gave us a few places to look for beds or cots on the old east side of town, so we're making progress."

Dean starts to ask what the hell Alicia is doing this early in the morning (she really might not sleep) when he makes the mistake of shifting his right leg, and the shock of pain is almost lost under the wave of heat at the memory of Cas's thumb pressed right there when he went down on his cock. Closing his hand on the edge of the couch, he rides out the echoes. He's got a plan: get through this, then get up and join Cas in the shower which he shouldn't have ever left in the first place.

"Dean?"

Biting back whatever was about to come out of his mouth, he realizes in horror that unless he's paying very careful attention every time he sits down--and the _entire time_ he's sitting-- this is gonna be the longest day of his life.

"Dean?"

In his peripheral vision, he notes Amanda's staring at him. "What?"

"Seriously, are you okay?" she asks, straightening to peer at him worriedly. "You seem a little--"

"Anything from the other towns?" he asks desperately, aware the shower's been turned off and now he could be in the bedroom with Cas, which is a great idea; why isn't he there now? "Patrol, chickens, cows…sheep?"

Amanda blinks at him. "It's still about an hour until dawn and they're coming and going on dirt roads and through snowy fields both ways using Kamal's updates to--"

"Yeah, right, got it." Faintly, he hears the door to their room close again, and God, he should-- "So you're saying no?"

"No. I mean yeah, I'm saying no…." Her eyes widen. "Dean, are you feeling feverish--"

The sound of knocking cuts her off, and Dean silently blesses whoever that is, calling "Come in!" way more enthusiastically than anything other than a potential fatality could justify. The door opens to reveal Vera and Joe, who look at him before focusing on Amanda, and in his peripheral vision, he thinks he sees Amanda nod before they come inside, shutting the door behind them.

Holding what looks like a bag of food: he could get used to this. "Good morning," he says sincerely, hoping that coaxes them close enough to get that bag.

"We brought breakfast," Vera starts carefully, setting the bag on the coffee table before retreating to the only other chair and Joe for reasons whatever hovering behind it.

"Bless you." Sliding to the edge of the couch (and just barely remembering to keep his knees inside the two inches or less leeway they have apart), he unzips the top to survey in satisfaction the containers of deliciousness within. "What've we got?"

"Uh, pretty basic with this many people, so they're concentrating on what they can make in bulk," Vera answers as he unloads a terracotta tortilla warmer filled with still-hot tortillas, a small container containing a lump of butter (hell yes) and a paper-wrapped hunk of sliced cheese, something rice-based (looks okay, smells like cinnamon), and the potato-onion-tomato-pepper thing that Rabin made last time they were here. "So--how's it going?"

"Really good," he says absently, then realizes maybe he's being rude and you don't do that if you want people to keep bringing you food (see, Sam, he has goddamn social skills). "There's coffee in the kitchen."

"And I'm gonna get some," Joe says, exchanging a look with Vera before retreating--and that is definitely a retreat--to the kitchen.

"Grab me some," she says belatedly, looking at Amanda, and Dean unwraps the cheese while they stare at each other in--as usual--repressed yearning. Christ, he thinks, opening the tortilla warmer, some people just can't see what's right in front of them. Maybe Joe should talk to them or something; he does counseling, after all.

"Butter knife," Dean yells toward the kitchen when he realizes the butter won't spread itself no matter how much he thinks it should. "Third drawer from the sink, left side. And some forks, same place."

"By the way," Vera says casually, "just got back from the infirmary and got some local news. Sudha went into labor last night."

Dean starts to smile then does the math. "Isn't she still a few weeks off?"

"She's primapara," Vera answers, adding with the ghost of a smirk, "First childbirth, and they did the math the really old fashioned way on conception. Dolores asked me to check her this morning--though I explained my experience with childbirth is minimal--and she's doing fine. Volunteer Services is asking about anyone with a medical background, and we already got a couple of LVNs and another EMT, so we're hoping for a midwife to show up. We need all the help we can get."

"How's she doing?" Dean asks as Joe returns with (a) coffee, (b) the butter knife, (c) a selection of forks along with (d) a kitchen chair, which he pulls to sit beside Vera after distributing his largesse.

"We're barely in first stage. She's helping Dolores out in the infirmary while she's waiting," Vera answers after a hesitation so brief Dean wonders if he imagined it. "Teresa and Neeraja have already been to see her. Apparently, the earth really likes childbirth, which isn't a sentence I ever imagined myself saying."

"It does," a husky voice says, and Dean's head snaps toward the hall doorway as Cas emerges, hair shiny-wet and wearing jeans and--Dean's t-shirt from last night. "Be fruitful and multiply is a concept it encourages very much." The blue eyes fix on Dean, warming. "Good morning."

"Hey," he says, standing up, still clutching the butter knife. "Got you coffee."

"Thank you." Sitting back down, he hands over the cup as Cas drops on the couch beside him, unable to stop grinning like an idiot as Cas takes a drink, smiling in appreciation, because Dean makes the best damn coffee in the world.

"Hungry?" he asks, realizing he's still holding the knife. "Got--uh everything you could want here."

"I probably should be," Cas agrees, slumping into the couch and surveying the bounty curiously, one bare foot hooking casually over Dean's ankle and promptly erasing any memory of what Dean was doing and replacing it with what they should be doing right goddamn now. "What do we have?"

It takes several long moments to work out what the hell that's supposed to mean, but he suspects it’s connected somehow to why he's holding a butter knife. "Uh." Food, right. With a renewed spirit of purpose, Dean adds a thin layer of butter to the first tortilla and gives it to Cas; come to think, he's kind of starving.

"Thank you." Dean freezes half-way through buttering his own tortilla as Cas folds it neatly in half and takes a bite, blue eyes falling closed, and oh God.

Abruptly, Vera bursts out laughing, cup just making it to the coffee table before she buries her face in her upraised knees. Bewildered, he glances at Joe and Amanda--no help there--before applying himself to exploring the ricey-thing. 

"You should try this," he says after a couple of enthusiastic bites, turning on the couch to offer the container. "Honey, cinnamon, and--no idea, fine, but it's good."

"Holy shit," Amanda breathes, leaning forward and Dean realizes she's squinting at Cas. "Is that a _hickey_?"

Cas raises his eyebrows, but now that Dean's looking, he can kind of see her point, and it's impressive (if he does say so himself); vividly purple and in territory even a turtleneck would find difficult to reach. "Your powers of observation are, as always, a credit to my instruction."

Vera makes a keening sound against her knees, and seriously, he really wonders about them. Retrieving the second fork, he hands it to Cas and holds the container for him as he takes a forkful with a curious look.

Amanda looks at them in horror. "Oh God," she says. " _That's_ what's wrong with you?"

He and Cas exchange bewildered looks, and Dean swallows before saying, "What?"

"Don't even. Didn't you already have this phase?" Amanda demands.

"Any reason you're all acting weird this morning?" Dean asks, pleased to see Cas respond positively to rice thing, taking the container from him to better consume the contents. Not surprising: the presence of sugar--or something sweet, whatever--is always gonna indicate a winner.

"Nope," Joe says stoically, leaning back in his chair. "In case you need some faith in humanity restored, two of the local non-Alliance towns are sending help. Trevor and Deanne stopped by the new headquarters last night on the way out and we had coffee."

"Coffee is going to change the world," Cas intones, making some serious headway in the rice. "Honey and cinnamon and--ginger, perhaps. Far superior to oatmeal."

"It's pretty good," Joe agrees. "Anyway, they have some excess food and a couple of medical people, which didn't ask, I'll take a couple of wisepeople who know herbs."

"Yeah, I'm taking a shift at the second infirmary this afternoon," Vera says breathlessly as she picks up her coffee cup again and bites her lip when she looks at Dean. "Dolores is getting slammed, and besides Sudha and a few injuries, we got a Diabetes Type I and about three Type IIs I need to check when I leave here before I go on duty. Uh, if that's okay."

"I need to revise the shift schedule in any case. What is that?" Cas asks curiously, and Dean helpfully retrieves the potato thing and trades it for the rest of the rice, in which Cas has done himself proud. Taking a bite, he considers, head tilted, then reaches for another tortilla, scooping two forkfuls into it before rolling it and taking another (really enthusiastic) bite. "Jalapeños are surprisingly versatile. Why aren't these added to more dishes?"

Dean marks down 'jalapeños' on his mental list of 'Things Cas Likes'. At this rate, they should have a full meal in about oh, a year. "I'll ask Teresa for more recipes with 'em." Picking up a tortilla, he follows Cas's example, adding a slice of cheese before rolling it up and taking a bite. "And this recipe while I’m at it."

"What's the medical situation look like?" Amanda asks worriedly, and Dean looks between them as he chews; that's something he doesn't even know enough about to form an opinion. 

"Could be worse; most people are coming with their medication in tow if they use it, but being in a car for plus two days did no favors for some of them," Vera answers soberly as Cas rolls a second tortilla and adding a slice of cheese this time. "A few elderly patients who needed fluids and rest, a couple of sprains from walking, a few frostbite first stage--frostnip--and some chilblains, nothing in the amputation range or anything. Not yet," she adds, mouth tightening. "That storm hits tonight--best we can hope for is mass frostbite on those that actually get here."

Cas looks up and finishes a ridiculously large mouthful of breakfast taco in one horrifying gulp; who the hell taught him to eat like that? "Two _days_? There's nowhere in Kansas it takes two days to get here even with present existing roads. They had maps."

"Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about that," Amanda says, leaning forward. "Xeroxes are so shitty I wasn't sure, but when I looked at them last night, I noticed some of them don't look complete. The maps they brought with them, I mean. We got a pretty good sampling, and--I could be wrong, this is eyeball and squint level shit--some of the routes looked way more convoluted than they should be. I'm talking light green for miles out of the way and I think--again, shitty quality--"

"Some of the more direct routes were erased," Cas finishes for her. "How many do we have now?"

"Upwards of five hundred copies from the parking lots," Amanda answers. " I sent a few of my kids with Sean's team for some breaking and entering practice when they had time yesterday. Claudia left word at the Volunteer Center last night to ask about those and a couple of the volunteers brought me another box this morning that they got from the refugees."

"I need to see them," Cas says, finishing his--holy shit, _fourth breakfast taco_ \--and starting to roll a fifth. 

"They're all in the new patrol meeting room," she answers smugly. "Took 'em myself so you could check them out."

Cas's taco freezes mid-air only inches from his mouth, and Dean abruptly remembers he may have forgotten something last night. "Yeah, so--"

"New patrol meeting room?" Cas echoes, oblivious to Dean _thinking really hard at him_ to let it go and he'll explain, which even if Dean was telepathic would probably work just as well as words (read: not at all). "What was wrong with the old one?"

"Right," Dean starts, setting down the rice and deciding damage control is in order. "Look--"

"It was in the old building," Amanda answers in confusion. "New building, ergo new room…." She looks between them and then finally sees Dean's very fucking significant look. "You know, I’m supposed to be doing--patrol things, I better--"

"--go, yeah," Vera agrees hastily, getting to her feet and fuck if they aren't practically broadcasting 'look at us be suspicious', what the hell? "Joe, we got--"

"Sit," Cas says casually, and Dean watches as all three drop back down like all their strings have been cut; he has _got_ to learn that 'do or smite' voice. "The Alliance is sending patrol members, chickens, maybe cows or pigs, decided probably at the unexpected meeting with the Alliance for which Joseph gave Dean notes on parliamentary procedure, which reminds me: Vera, Joseph, what happened to the missing pages of the notebook that doubtless covers the unexpected meeting of the Alliance that may or may not have been where Dean softened them up with a plethora of points of order that Joseph taught him?" The blue eyes sweep them all (Dean included). "Dean took them out; of course he did."

Vera groans theatrically. "Christ, Dean, you _promised_ …."

"Joseph, you said the new headquarters," Cas continues. "I was distracted; where is it?"

Dean stares at him, dazed. "How do you do that?"

"Sex, twenty milligrams of methylphenidate, and a cup of coffee," Cas answers, sublimely ignoring the concept of 'rhetorical question' and wait, did he just say _sex_? "As well as--"

"Second, east end," Amanda says quickly, shrugging at Dean's glare. "What? I don't want mowing duty."

"You don't even live in Chitaqua!"

"Like that would stop him!"

"She's correct," Cas says, staring at Dean as he deliberately bites off half the goddamn breakfast taco. "Dean, is this about what happened in the mess?"

Dean thinks about calm things: orgasms, baths, snow, warm mattresses, murder one; it doesn't help. "You mean the 'incident'?"

For a wonder, Cas can read tone, lowering his taco. "Yes."

"Personal matter," Dean agrees, nodding. "When you were jumped by five armed guys in the mess, where I pried out a fucking bullet from the wall that originated from your new stress ball slash one of them's gun that from the angle was _pointed at your fucking head_? _That_ incident?"

"You make it sound--"

"Like exactly what happened or did I miss something?" 

Cas searches the (totally agreeing with Dean) faces around them. "It was just--my presence. You know it can be upsetting to humans."

"Okay, one, no, it's not, not like that," Amanda says when Dean can't get decide which answer to give to that due to the sheer number. "Cas, I get your opinion of people is…depressingly but probably justifiably low, yeah, but there's 'freaks who are freaky' and 'homicide on the mess floor'. That's not even in the range, and I'd know." She gives Dean an uncertain look before taking a deep breath. "Look, the team leaders weren't just the five percent here, they had reasons of their own… _probably_ , I mean, to take you out."

"They realized they were about to be caught at their killing the non-true believers campaign," Dean says, forcing himself to say the words, aware the room's gone silent. "It wasn't just Vera, Cas; the timing was just convenient. They couldn't afford to let you survive, Cas, not after Vera was dead."

From the corner of his eye, he sees Joe straighten, looking surprised, and on a guess, Dean's not gonna be invited to any future poker games in the camp. 

"There's no way you can know that," Cas says with utter and complete truthfulness, but you know what, Dean's gonna go with his gut, just like his goddamn predecessor didn't manage to do.

"When you told me, I checked h--my journal," he answers flatly. "It was all there--Christ, it's fucking _math_ , not like anyone could miss it." He looks at Cas. "You sure as fuck didn't, so what the hell was my excuse?"

Cas stares at him over the potatoes container. "I didn't have evidence--"

"You never should have felt you had to have it!" Dean interrupts bitterly. "You should have been able to--to know you could come to me with anything, and I mean _anything_ , and I'd believe you, no goddamn paper trail required. That's on me; letting it happen in the first place and not--not making sure you knew that."

"Right," Joe says suddenly. "Not saying anyone's--anything, let's move on. Cas, short version: we moved to an empty building Second Street; Second and Syracuse are restricted to current residents and Alliance members, Main is in lockdown and restricted to residents of that street, parents who have kids at the daycare, and Chitaqua. Because the kids--"

"There's still a remote possibility this is a very convoluted plan to acquire them," Cas agrees impatiently. "Why are we on Second? Third was perfectly acceptable."

"The one on Second's bigger," Amanda says, looking encouraging. "Used to be inventory before they built the warehouses for surplus off Main, can fit everyone and not sleep in shifts."

"Right," Joe says, scooting to the end of his chair and looking--God help him, _encouraging_. "So as of last night, thanks to our fearless leader," and for some reason, he grins at Dean, "the other Alliance towns who were acting like they didn't remember there is no 'i' in 'team' as in 'we're all on the same one and signed a contract saying just that' learned the error of their ways and are sending surplus food and the contracted number of patrol required for mutual defense or in this case, defense against overcrowding leading to violence."

"And the Fall of the Roman Republic Mark II, this apparently happens a lot," Dean mumbles, which weirdly enough makes Vera giggle. "Look, Cas, I'm not sorry I unilaterally decided I'm not okay with you being _shot at_!"

"What he means," Joe picks up, "is that I had to talk him down from declaring war on the mess and maybe Third Street and Kansas while he was at it while Alicia warned Vera that Amanda may or may not do it herself and she was only like, a third into your report…" Joe trails off, looking at Cas incredulously. "Did you really tell her Alison wouldn't like it if anyone interrupted the meeting for a personal incident and the personal incident was _someone shooting at you_?"

"It was like question and answer hell," Amanda says in bafflement. "Why yes, my stress ball is a gun but not _my gun_ , oh bullets, on the floor and in the wall and yeah, they're in the infirmary but don't worry about it, what's important here is goddamn _art supplies_ but no crappy pencils and don't bother Dean at Alison's meeting, it'll _wait_."

Cas (wisely) doesn't answer by way of a mouthful of potato thing, which tells Dean it actually did happen _just like that_. 

"In case this didn't occur to you," Joe starts, then sighs. "Which it wouldn't. It's not just about you--yes, Dean, I know it was and that's the reason you didn't get to talk after that first speech when our allies showed up along with some locals and softened 'em up." Dean settles back with a scowl. "Mutual defense clause," he continues after a warning look at Dean. "Covers monsters and raiders who are people who may or may not also be here, or things that attack members of the Alliance. Second in command of Chitaqua attacked in the mess by persons of unknown affiliation: now we can request help from the Alliance towns."

"To be fair," Vera says reluctantly, "I didn't get the feeling the other mayors didn't want to, but--"

"Not their backyard filled with refugees, yeah," Joe states flatly, and Dean blinks, startled. "Ichabod's fine, it was the other in our midst who aren't one of us so not our problem but we'll help you move 'em somewhere not here." 

"No one said that," Vera says quietly.

"That's why until Dean made them, the mayors were trying to work out how to get out of town before Alison made the official call for assistance," Joe answers. "Because if she did, they'd have to tell her either no, won't help--and break the Alliance, which trust me, they do not want to do--or tell her they'll help her resettle her extras somewhere, code for 'anywhere but here so they won't be your or our problem'. Which would have had the same effect, this is Alison we're talking about; she would have broken the Alliance herself."

Dean glances at Cas, but to his surprise, the blue eyes are thoughtful. "How much can we buy from the border? Food, I should say, let's start there. We haven't needed to before."

"We have enough money--" Dean starts.

"It's not a question of money," Cas says, still looking at Joe. "You've taken the measure of Laurence; what will he risk?"

"Not this," Joe answers. "He could authorize a few dozen grocery stores' worth of food shipped over the border, no questions asked, but he won't, not when he can get sure money from what he does now and not risk someone, somewhere, double checking the logs. And before you ask, no, they're all fucking; if he won't, no one at any border station will." He makes a face. "We threaten to walk, he might do it, bleed us dry--and I mean dry, he'll have a damn good guess we have a hell of a lot more than we're telling--and turn in the first genuine lead on the location of Dean Winchester and retire without anyone caring how much he's been raking in from border graft on a pile of money big enough to build his own fortress. They can't find Chitaqua, but we got five towns of hostages and I don't put anything past them use whatever they can get to make Dean come out of hiding."

"Right--" Dean starts, again.

"And if you think you're turning yourself in, no, and no commentary," Joe interrupts. "We'll find another way."

"Right," Dean says slowly, glaring at him. "Any idea how many Ichabod can support for how long? Not including surplus coming in?"

"They're working on that now," Joe answers. "But realistically…let's go with 'not long'."

"Then we're gonna have to steal it for them."

Vera rolls her eyes, but Cas says, "I'm not opposed to this."

"What?" Vera asks blankly.

"After we dump all our MREs on 'em," Dean adds righteously. "And send the teams to the bases we haven't cleared already and every store in the cities to see about canned goods in the destroyed areas that no one's gotten to yet, whatever we can find. Hell, we'll check every empty town if we have to, find out who can hunt, but put it on the table now so no one's surprised when I call everyone in and ask for a plan."

Vera frowns. "The trucks that come through--"

"Yeah, no, piss off corporations, get the military back in force, assuming they aren't chasing people here," Joe answers, looking at Dean suspiciously, then Cas, who smiles. "You--"

"Oklahoma or Missouri, though my preference would be Oklahoma," Cas says. "Avoid upsetting our charmingly corrupt local border guard by upsetting an unknown but doubtless equally venal one on the Oklahoma/Colorado border."

"Do we know that border well enough?" Dean asks.

"We'll do our research first, of course--"

"You're serious," Vera bursts out. 

Cas looks surprised. "Very."

"Go into an uninfected state with a giant truck and just--go grocery shopping with a gun?"

"I was thinking after hours, under the cover of darkness--Costco, for example," Cas says reasonably. "Or the other one--Sam's. They sell in bulk." 

Dean meets Cas's eyes, sharing his grin. "I like the way you think."

"Okay," Joe says slowly. "So--I have no idea what to say here. Someone?"

"However, the subject--enjoyable as I anticipate it will be--will need to wait. We need to meet with Alison, Teresa, and Manuel as soon as possible," Cas says, looking vaguely surprised that all the potato stuff is gone. "If the storm comes tonight, we don't have a great deal of time. Also, Amanda, I need to see the maps you've found so far."

"Sure," she says, starting to her feet and then hesitating. "Now, or--"

"Now would be best, yes. Let me get dressed. Vera, can you brief me on what Dean left out of yesterday's events, please?"

"Sure thing," she says brightly, because she hates him.

"I'll stay and help Dean clean up," Joe says easily, and Dean tries not to let his expression change. Sounds like fun.

* * *

Joe considerately waits for everyone to leave (and for Dean to buy a few more seconds with coffee refills and stacking things neatly in the sink, refrigerator, pantry, or breadbox) before saying, "Seriously, Dean?"

Sitting down on the couch, Dean just remembers the two inch rule and takes a deep breath before saying, "Look--"

"Shut up." Dean shuts his mouth. "Got it, this is why you're acting like a crazy person. No talking," he warns when Dean starts to explain how fuck yeah he's crazy did he just notice or something? "How's this; we'll go fifty-fifty on this one?"

"Huh?"

Joe sits back. "Your team leaders, fine, but after the fact, we hid it."

"Because you were scared for your lives, maybe?" Dean wonders if he's hearing things or something. "What the hell--"

"Or--for reasons that had nothing to do with you. Mostly," Joe allows, grimacing. "Okay, other than the number of questionable reasons most of us had to sneak _into_ the infected zone--and not gonna lie, they're a story in themselves--Cas told you back then, what would you have done? Killed all the team leaders?"

"Yeah," Dean answers hotly, like there's any question of that shit. "Problem with that? I'm not seeing it!"

"Anyone who helped 'em?" He nods, but Joe gets in before he can finish opening his mouth. "What about the ones who did it with guns to their heads? Or someone else's?"

Fuck yes, Dean wants to say; right now, he may even mean it. "How many...."

"Dean, there's a reason Cas never said who was at his cabin that night," Joe answers. "Or if he told you, on a guess, only the ones dead or gone. Tell me you see where I'm going with this?"

Actually, he kind of does. "Fall of the Roman Republic crowning its first Caesar. If anyone survived the civil war, that is."

"Poisoned well, sure, but either everyone had to drink the water or they cleaned it the fuck up," Joe says, nodding. "Dean, they were good at hiding it, even Cas might have missed it if they hadn't decided Vera had to go. They had _help_ doing this, maybe half the goddamn camp whether they wanted to or not."

"And you just--could live with that?" Actually, that's exactly what they'd been doing for the last couple of years, so stupid question. "Looking over your shoulder, working with people you couldn't trust--"

"Dean, once we got out of training, I could trust _Erica_ to throw herself on top of a bomb rather than risk a questionable injury to anyone in the camp," Joe says wryly. "If they ever stopped worrying about Cas--which I doubt, drunk, sober, high, clean, whatever, best part of his day was fucking with them--they had Risa at every meeting and Amanda entertaining herself by stalking them for fun--sorry, combat practice. Détente, it works. Like the Cold War, but less nukes." He thinks for a minute. "Probably the same number of guns, though. Go figure."

"You're saying I’m overreacting?"

"I'm saying share the goddamn sin, Dean: your omission, our commission. We did know what we were doing when we chose not to talk, and I'll cop to being one of the originators of don't tell, don't tell ever. But the poisoned fruit was the team leaders."

Dean blows out a breath. "It's my camp. How can you trust me knowing I let that happen?"

"I guess the same way you trust us knowing we hid it from you," Joe answers with a shrug, fuck him. "Dean, we weren't deliberately using Cas as a stalking horse, but that's pretty much how it turned out. I'm not proud of that, either. It doesn't mean much now, but if there'd been any other way--"

"Share the sin," Dean interrupts, sinking more deeply into the couch. "Cas knew exactly what he was doing. Might as well have fucking dared them; he does that shit." Joe raises his eyebrows. "He never told you about his bright idea to take on _archangels_?"

Joe blinks at him. "He survived, though."

"No, his Dad resurrected him." Joe's eyebrows leap upward. "It's--" Maybe this isn't the right time for this conversation. Which, he realizes, means there's gonna be a right time, because they're going to have it. Maybe all of it. "Complicated. We'll talk about it sometimes, share freakish life stories."

"My life story," Joe says virtuously, "is goddamn normal. Grew up, moved to Israel to be with my widowed grandmother, joined the Israeli army--"

"--almost shot yourself with someone else's gun. That was still in the holster."

"--fuck Eldritch Horror," Joe growls. "Rabbi, college, got married, got divorced--"

"Broke into a possible FBI black site used to hold test subjects for Croatan research who thought they were signing up for a trial on a new epilepsy drug," Dean says quietly, watching Joe's expression freeze. "Sold your condo, cashed out your 401Ks, and paid out the ass for location and the best forgeries money could buy to get in the door. Only thing I couldn't figure out was how you even knew about it," well, this Dean couldn't, but he maybe didn't care, "but then I remembered--ex-wife. Epileptic?"

"Got it in one." Joe closes his eyes. "She's in that happy group who stop responding to medication. Did the neuro shit, was being evaluated for surgery, but her GP heard about this trial and thought he could get her in. She called me, asked me to take our joint dogs for six weeks."

"Joint dogs?" 

"We agreed to joint custody in the divorce," Joe says, looking at Dean like maybe he shouldn't question anyone's commitment to their pet bond. "She didn't make the study at the last minute--got hospitalized for the flu, this happens to her, all the bugs--but by then, I'd heard enough…one of her friends from her support group was in it. Called some people, dissolved everything I owned, did it and ran, because even asking questions was unhealthy at that point."

Huh. "How well did you know ex-wife's friend?"

"Not even her name before Monica told me when I went to visit her in the hospital; they met after the divorce," Joe answers, leaning back in his chair. "Why?"

Honestly, Dean's not sure what to say to that. "You did it for a principle?"

"For the principle that Florida Menendez, a part-time lawyer with no living family, two dogs, and untreatable epilepsy should not be a test subject for Croat," Joe replies. "Or Carolina Ferguson, florist, no living family, one dog, one cat--it takes all kinds, I guess--and untreatable epilepsy should not be a test subject for Croat. Or Miles Sanderson, construction worker, no family, Lily Folgers, no family, Catalina Velasquez, Shaniqua Melton, Brittany Cosco--"

"No family."

"Monica was in four of these while we were married," Joe says. "Her sister--stepsister--was never listed as next of kin, they barely spoke for reasons--drama, Dean, you have no idea--but I was as her husband. Some of the forms asked about power of attorney, including medical, but she never bothered with that because marriage presumes that kind of thing. On this one, I'm gonna bet she skipped right over that section from sheer habit. She was denied within a day of going into the hospital, when I was called, because under the terms of our divorce, until she designated someone else, they were legally obligated to call me."

"She was okay with that?"

"She carried the paperwork in her purse just in case she got hit by a car on the way to work," Joe answers wryly. "Anything to keep Maisie from getting _de facto_ right to _anything_ as only living relative. They did this shit, Dean, it was fun to watch, yeah, and they seemed to enjoy it, so I rolled with it." Joe shrugs, slumping back. "Untreatable epilepsy--it fucks with your brain, sometimes, but they're treated like it's all the time. I knew what she wanted, she told me, and I took notes. Hospital acted like she didn't have a voice; she could use mine." He licks his lips. "Whoever set this up, they weren't very good at it, Dean; it was a stupid mistake, didn't do their homework other than the basics. But--that wouldn't have helped until after the fact; they'd have to be gone for someone to ask questions. Someone had to be their voice, Dean, and might as well be me." He shrugs. "Cleaned up everything I could, got the information I needed, and counted on the fact no one expected anyone to notice this fast. Gave them all the cash I had--which not gonna lie, I wasn't doing too badly--the IDs I bought, and we all ran and didn't look back."

"And you came to the infected zone."

Joe grins. "My chances were better here; at least you can run away from a goddamn Croat, not get it by needle after being strapped to a chair. Heard about a place that might be trying to stop it, and not with human sacrifice." He makes a face. "In a manner of speaking, anyway."

"And Monica?" 

"My brother went to see her after I made the six o'clock news and he took over all my ex-spousal duties," Joe says, looking suddenly amused. "She and Maisie made up--having to flee Philadelphia for fear of Croat makes a bond--but funny story; last visit to the border, got a surprise message. Matthew wanted my blessing on his recent marriage to Monica."

Dean take a moment to appreciate that. "Tell me that's a pseudonym to protect his identity."

"It's not," Joe says with a sigh, eyes narrowing. "First sprog will be named Joseph, which my math says should be born in the next six months. I have no idea how I feel about this."

He feels like an asshole; he had no idea Joe was going through--well, anything. His _brother_ , for God's sake. "Uh, listen--you okay?"

"If it's a girl, she's going to hate me for being named Joseph." Joe raises his eyebrows, mouth twitching smugly. "Dude, I was instrumental in my brother and the woman I loved finding the great loves of their lives with each other. All I had to do was marry her, divorce her, commit a list of federal crimes, move to the infected zone, and wait almost two years to make it happen."

Dean blinks slowly.

"I'm a yenta," Joe explains, like it's obvious.

"I really don't think that's a yenta."

"Are you Jewish?" Dean shakes his head; he's definitely not. " _Goyim_ don't get the complexities of 'yenta', it happens. This is _Torah_ definition right here, trust me."

"Are there even yentas in the Torah?" he asks suspiciously.

"Are you a rabbi?"

Yeah, he's not gonna win this one. "Yenta."

"Yenta," Joe confirms smugly. Then, "Josephine, what's wrong with that?"

* * *

Dean's first view of Third Street in the cold light of mostly-dawn is about the same as last night's, in which chilled looking groups leave the ward line for the comfort of warmth, food, and medical attention. The crowd outside the perimeter line looks pretty much as miserable as last night and twice as large. Jesus Christ, Dean thinks blankly; what the hell is going on out there?

"How many--"

"Claudia's got people from Volunteer Services tracking that." Squinting, Dean can just make out a vague disturbance that spreads through the center of the crowd like ripples from a pebble dropped in a lake, the dull, nearly subliminal roar fragmenting into shouts. "Last time I asked, she said greater than twenty thousand and left it at that."

As several of Ichabod's patrol jump the fence, the ripples explode into visible chaos, like tornado touching down from a clear sky, and Dean hears someone start to scream.

"Don't," Joe says, hand on his chest before he even realizes he's moved, as more of Ichabod's patrol start pushing through the crowd, and unmistakably, that's Christina vaulting the fence, her team doggedly on her heels. "I'm speaking officially for Alison; Chitaqua's leader cannot get caught up in a riot. Or any of the Alliance mayors."

Dean's education in (something like) politics was tripled yesterday, but since it'd been near zero before, that's still not much. He does get, however, why that would be a problem, especially since he's not a mayor and Chitaqua's command structure makes things--complicated.

"How far have they gotten on the roads?" he asks, trying to follow Christina through that crowd before the vague outline of a man, arm cocked for a punch, vanishes from sight and startled people jerk back and away; so that's where she is. 

"Snow plows are still working in shifts," Joe answers. "Three miles, maybe four while also getting cars off the road. And hoping them don't run over anyone trying to hitch a ride, which is pretty much everyone."

Frowning, he finds himself thinking about Cas's table-sized map of Kansas. The only roads represented are the ones that work (he thinks) all in the same shade of brown (no color-based commentary on quality), and are almost lost anyway under the colors of what Dean thinks are the migration lines of people coming here. He wishes he could asked Cas more about what he was doing, other than having some very cartographical feelings, but there were other priorities, like Cas himself.

Those damn grey lines: no rhyme or reason to the naked eye, no, but the four roads feeding into the only working road into Ichabod had been surrounded by them, so deep they left grooves from multiple strokes so dark the grey's almost black. Cas's conflicted feelings (read: thwarted violence), yeah, it was definitely that, but….

And he said he wasn't finished yet.

"We need to meet with Manuel, Teresa, and Alison as soon as possible," Dean says, watching another group released into the care of two volunteers who immediately go up to speak to them, one taking a three-year old from an exhausted woman's arms. "Cas had an idea--it would work even better if that goddamn snowstorm would wait a day or two. What's ETA again?"

"Two hours after dusk at the earliest, but on a guess, we have until midnight before the worst hits," Joe answers, tilting his head toward the alley access, the wood barrier being bricked on the other side as quickly as possible around a newly-installed door and guarded by two residents. "Come on. I'll send someone to admin to see when we can see Alison and Manuel."

Dean waits until the violent movement in the crowd abruptly vanish, like watching a twister disperse in the middle of the road. No rhyme or reason to it: it happens.

"Yeah," he says. "Let's go.

* * *

Here's the thing: when Alison insisted all the Alliance people (aka Chitaqua) move to Second, she talked about more space, electricity, plenty of room for everyone to sleep and not even in shifts, give Chitaqua a home base.

All that's true; it's three stories of spacious interiors and what Vera swears are hardwood floors, and the rooms are painted in soothing shades of beige and beig-er, for variety, he assumes. There are even working bathrooms and three showers (why? No one knows), a huge-ass break room on each floor, and the one on the ground floor has an attached kitchen. By description, Dean wondered why the hell it was made storage instead of living space.

Then he saw it.

Alison didn't tell them (because she's like this) that the building in question looks like the horrifying offspring of a really trendy corporate headquarters or something and a gothic-themed prison block. The entire exterior is all weird dark grey stone over solid concrete that someone (crazy) who was probably drunk (and crazy) thought would look modern or something and pulls off 'place you go into and never come out again' while simultaneously sucking all available light and it's not like they get much of that these days. He was told when there used to be regular sunlight, it had a shimmering thing going on, and like that, Dean was immediately reconciled to never seeing the sun again because the last thing this needed was _glitter_. 

Looking down the street at the quaint re-imagining of small-town life complete with fake storefronts, he surveys the building again, which is now larger, greyer, and even more wrong up to and including the huge ass balcony running the length of the third floor overlooking _absolutely nothing_ ; Second Street is not what he'd call an inspiring view. Imagine this shit with glitter: no thanks, ever.

"Dean."

It's also unnaturally rectangular, like someone was very exact with the measurements for summoning something purposes; seriously, you could cut something on all these sharp angles. The windows' dead stare down at them is unsettling, but not nearly as much as the fact that they're all exactly the same distance apart as they are from the corners, he knows it, though as yet, no one will get their asses up there and verify the goddamn obvious.

"Are we sure--"

"Dean, the company was probably based out of LA or something," Joe says patiently. "They probably thought they were being--I don't know, trendy. Why does this bother you so much? You never struck me as being into architecture. Or even…" He trails off without saying 'know the meaning of the word' which is insulting but technically not exactly wrong.

"You exorcise enough ghosts, you get a feeling about places," he says, staring incredulously at the brick facing of the gaping door--alcove thing?--that you have to cross for _six steps_ (in darkness, if you don't have the super weird bulb thing they use in there) before getting to the massive wooden double doors like something out of a crappy movie about medieval fortresses, each twelve feet tall; why do you need doors that big? For something really tall that you summoned to come in, maybe? "If this isn't haunted, it should be."

"That doesn't even make sense."

Dean glares up at the window--embrasures?--the taped-over glass like (weirdly striped) eyes and wonders if he should talk to Cas about giving all the kids a refresher on 'how to spot an evil fucking building' because this is ridiculous.

With a deep breath (and Joe pushing him, dude), Dean braves the endless near-darkness to the doors and emerges into the ongoing chaos of a move of buildings + stripping all their jeeps of anything useful they might need. Which means, in layman's terms, anyone coming in this godforsaken building will be met by what appears to be some very serious weapons traffickers offering a decent size war at a discount price and soldiers to fight it. Plus--fuck his life--all the boxes of emergency condoms plus backups in the corner by several boxes of ammunition (along with all their emergency supplies in the jeep, but Jesus, that's a lot of condoms). And…bags of rock salt, which should be neutral but brings it all together in some really creepy way, though he can't explain why or how. He suspects it's because this room may be an unnervingly accurate symbol of Chitaqua's collective priorities and life goals (kill all the monsters; have all the sex). His people need _hobbies_.

"Dean's here," Joe bellows like he's announcing the second coming, clapping Dean on the shoulder as scurrying soldiers turn to look at him with the cheerful smiles of people who have maybe already been possessed by the ghosts of this goddamn nightmare building. 

"Morning, Dean!" echoes around him. Natalie glances up with a smile from where she and Tara are sorting ammunition by type (maybe), and Jeremy waves in passing while carrying four duffle bags with Brad following with three more. Dean hopes those aren't more weapons knowing it's futile.

"Hey," he manages, trying to look professional. He glances up at the three fucking story ceiling and empty art deco light fixtures, textured walls and three floors of activity and visualizes a perky receptionist's desk dead center smiling at him forever and gets it. "This was a _law firm_."

Joe gives him a confused look. "What?"

"Did some contract negotiating once," he says absently, eyeing the curving metal stairs that joins the three floors in disfavor and how it somehow makes the beige even more utterly lifelessly wrong. "Same feel."

He can feel Joe silently judging him for being crazy. "You're not even trying to make sense, are you?"

"Joe, someone sold their soul for success, defined by having a firm in a freaky grey sparkly building in downtown _Ichabod, Kansas_. Before it was Ichabod, anyway," Dean explains, knowing he's right. "It's reassuring to have proof there are worse deals to be made, and someone thought making that one was actually a good idea." 

Joe tips his head sideways, studying Dean before abruptly reaching out and pressing his palm against his forehead. "No fever. Should I get Cas?"

"Fuck you," he says without heat, shoving Joe's hand aside and ignoring his smirk. "Don't believe me?"

"Not even a little."

"You're a hunter, right?" Dean asks him curiously. "Gotta be born to it, I guess."

"Funny," Joe replies, sangfroid unimpaired.

Lena, on her way to the stairs, grins at him from over an armful of rifles--Christ, how many do they have here? "Cas is in the Situation Room with Amanda and Sean."

"Situation Room?"

"In the back," she says helpfully, pointing with her elbow. "Go right of the stairs, turn right at the first door, turn left and it's three rooms down. Also, Vera said to tell you she's at the infirmary with Alicia; they'll be back in a few."

"Thanks." He looks at Joe. "Hey, go to Admin and find out when we can talk to Alison and either Teresa or Manuel. Oh, and tell Gary he's done. We'll debrief him--sometime, I guess."

"On it," Joe answers with a sloppy salute, and Dean goes to the right of the stairs and turns left into a tunnel-like archway that opens up into a series of three large, interconnecting rooms all in exactly the same shade of beige like--oh, maybe--it's just one room and he's trapped in a loop forever, or at least until he gets into the last room, which just proves his entire point.

Something's _wrong_ with this place.

No Sean but there's Nate, showing Cas something on a clipboard--a clipboard?--with Amanda well on the other side of the room taking stacks of paper out of a box in the definition of 'not going to engage'. Because she knows everything, is friends with Sean (who is seeing Zack and used to be with Nate; how did this shit become relevant to his life?). People being people, he reminds himself firmly, and not the kind that shoot other people (anymore). 

"So, how's it going?" he asks when it becomes obvious no one's going to notice him otherwise. It should be a relief after the front room, but it's not.

"Good," Amanda says over her shoulder as Cas nods at him with a flickering glance, eyes unreadable and okay, not good.

"It's fine, I promise," Cas tells Nate (who looks kind of like maybe he's not tracking…well anything). "These are the correct numbers, I assure you."

"Right." Nate squints at the clipboard uncertainly. "Should I--"

"You did very well," Cas says, and there's no way to miss the deliberate note of reassurance in his voice. "I promise, you're done."

Nate nods jerkily, bloodshot eyes only coming up to see Dean when he almost runs into him. "Hey, Dean."

"Hey." He looks between them. "Everything okay?"

Nate blinks at him vaguely. "Yeah, fine. Checking our numbers--bullets, I mean." Dean meets Cas's eyes and reads a lot of not good things. "Got it right this time, so--"

"You were right the first two times," Cas says conversationally, and from the corner of his eye, Dean notes Amanda's really busy stacking and restacking a pile of papers. "I'm sure Tara simply needs assistance with basic arithmetic. You may go."

"Go with God," Dean says seriously, moving out of his way and seeing the faint tremor in his hands, gauze wrapped around two fingers: construction with Tony's crew, almost forgot. "And get some coffee--are you even awake? What time did you get to bed?"

"I’m fine--"

"Around three, when James physically dragged him from Fifth Street and just one more something," Cas says. "He's going to give that clipboard to Tara and go to a room with a bed and/or sleeping bag and sleep until I say otherwise. And that is an order."

Nate makes a face. "Yes, sir."

"Tony would very much appreciate your help when you wake up," Cas adds casually. "I already approved it, provided you rest enough I can be sure you know which side of a hammer is which."

"Got it. Night--sort of." Nodding at Dean, he wanders out, rubbing the back of his head sleepily. 

Joining Cas, Dean frowns at his vanishing shape. "He okay?"

"Physically exhausted and likely emotionally as well, which I understand isn't uncommon when one is subject to a series of exceedingly petty acts of passive-aggressive hostility in addition to personal stress," Cas says conversationally, and glancing over his shoulder, Dean sees Amanda stiffen and really doesn't like the sound of this. "Tony was impressed; he told me when he came by to check on Nate that he has a truly startling amount of knowledge on repairing structural stability, which I assume he was instructed in by Winchester House when he worked on it. Tony has reclassified several buildings out of pink-yellow to yellow already and has very high hopes he can double his original estimate of habitable buildings with Nate's help."

"I said I was sorry for making him get his ass out of bed to help out a little for the move," Amanda says, not sounding sorry at all as she slams down another box. "Not like the rest of us aren't on triple shifts during an emergency, but let's keep talking about poor Nate's goddamn interrupted sleep."

Dean really wishes he'd brought coffee or maybe more weapons. A list of safe conversational topics, too. "So--wait, Winchester House really taught Nate how to fix it?"

"Generally, contractors don't last very long there," Cas answers. "Nate's firm, however, was renewed due to unprecedented progress, and I do mean unprecedented, as _it's not a house_ that needs fixing."

"So what was he doing if he wasn't fixing it?"

"He _was_ fixing it," Cas corrects him, and Dean wonders if _he's_ tracking. "From his description of the rooms staying in place after he worked on them, he seemed to be repairing the dimensional rift itself."

Dean doesn't even try to wrap his mind around that any more than he has to. "How?"

"Drywall," Cas says and it takes a second for Dean to realize that's not a non-sequitur. "And paint."

"Jesus Christ," Amanda mutters, but whatever, _what_?

"You can fix those with _drywall_?" Christ, no wonder you can't see the bullet holes in their cabin.

"No," Cas says helplessly. "You can't, but apparently Winchester House didn't tell Nate that, and it worked. Whatever your next question is, the answer is 'I don't know' but plan to explore the subject with Nate at the very next opportunity." Looking into the middle distance, Cas looks thoughtful. "I wonder how much Nate has guessed about what happened when he was in the attic."

He's pretty sure that's connected, somehow. "What was in the attic anyway?"

"On a guess, it was," he answers slowly. "Or rather, when Nate wondered where the attic was, it brought him before it remembered it wasn't an attic at the moment and needed to be if Nate was going to be there." 

Dean thinks he knows why House needed to be a house. "Seeing Winchester House when it--wasn't a house….is this the part where a glance drives people crazy?"

"No, it's the part where Nate--if only for a moment--existed in the exact same discrete area of interdimensional space that the entity occupied and that is--to say the least--not hospitable to reality as it exists on this plane, much less corporeal life." Cas hesitates, looking at Dean almost apologetically. "Nate shouldn't exist any longer, and yet, here he is, alive and well, which…."

In all the time they've known each other, he's never seen Cas this genuinely thrown by something. "You okay? It saved him, right?"

"Obviously." It takes a second for Dean to hear the amusement laced through the shock for what it is. "If by that you mean, gathered up all the infinite pieces of Nate from inside itself and put them back together correctly before sending him back to continue painting as if nothing had happened, then yes. It can't even consistently maintain its appearance as a house and loses entire floors at times or forgets where to put doors, but it…." Slowly, Cas starts to smile. "I'm impressed. Old Ones don't see humans--they barely see _each other_ other than as prey. As you see a single-celled amoeba, they see everything but themselves. Yet it saw him. It _knew him_ , so well it could gather him up again from infinity and remake him without flaw." His mouth quirks. "And play what I think was multidimensional hide and seek in an infinite house and have fun with tourists and learn about numbers. I wonder if Nate introduced it to television; that would explain a great deal."

"Good God," Amanda mutters, slamming the empty box down, and Dean winces; he forgot she was in here. "Crazy house likes him, you can take that as a recommendation, fine, and he's helping out here like a decent person, fine. That doesn't make him not shitty; it just makes him selective about it. Me, less building skills, better people skills would be my choice, but takes all kinds, I guess."

"You have a very nice room at Alison's with central heat," Cas observes, turning to a nearby table and opening a box with a precise rip of the tape. "People do tend to value least what they have no need of themselves."

Dean sees that hit Amanda and wonders if he really needs to be here for this. "So--"

Amanda spins around, looking at Cas incredulously, but Dean at least doesn't miss the guilt behind it. "He makes his own fucking problems and then makes them everyone else's!"

"I wasn't aware he'd had sex with you," Cas says, reaching into the box and taking out--candles? "Or you were at all involved in his personal life, or Zack's for that matter. I think it was you that said those weren't my business, so it would only be fair for you to follow your own mandate."

"And we'll pick this up later," Dean decides. "Amanda, I need to--"

"Yeah, I got real problems to deal with, not Nate's poor sad feelings when his own fuck-ups come home to roost or Cas playing concerned leader because he recently learned all about feelings," she snaps, then stills. "Sorry. I didn't mean to say that."

"Apology not accepted," Cas says over his shoulder. "But I do appreciate you didn't try to convince me you didn't mean it, merely the act of saying it."

Looking shaken, Amanda takes a quick breath. "Cas, look--"

"You're dismissed," Dean says softly, and has the satisfaction of seeing her flinch. Nodding jerkily, she heads out the door, and Dean takes the precaution of going to close it behind her before looking at Cas. "She had him counting bullets?"

"Tara told Nate that his math was wrong and, from the look of that paper, changed his numbers at least a few times." Setting the box carefully under the table, Cas starts to sort the candles, though the criteria is unclear. Then again, so is the reason they have enough candles to need sorting. Useful if the power goes out, maybe? "For what greater joy could there be than taunting someone too exhausted to know what they're doing, much less fight back?"

Yeah, and she's on Sean's team. Great. "Amanda defended her?"

"No, of course not. She simply didn't see any problem with it," he answers flatly, moving a red candle slightly left and trying not to look like he's rediscovering the stress headache. "She thought it was very funny."

"Cas--"

"Nate didn't want to come back to sleep," Cas says abruptly, turning around to look at him. "James did actually have to almost carry him and not because he was tired, though yes, that was a factor. James and Mira are worried, and if this is why…."

"Not defending--any of them," Dean starts, knowing it's a mistake but it's gotta be said. "This is the definition of 'make your own goddamn problems and also other people's'. People get pissed about that and react. He's been doing this since--when, he got here?"

"Doing _what_? You mean have sex with people who were very aware of his issues and still indulged and mocked him afterward?" Cas asks, and wow, so this is going even more wrong than he thought. "Or those who did that and at this very late point have decided it's unacceptable behavior that should not be stood for? Or those who he didn't have sex with or even speak to other than in a professional capacity who feel the need to join in the mass condemnation? Or--"

"Point taken," Dean says hastily. 

"He's been doing this--whatever that means--since he was thrown out of his family's home, moved to California and got a job in construction while living in a cardboard box," Cas continues bitterly, because Dean can't just be wrong, he's gotta be wrong on a traumatic fucking scale that includes living in boxes. "The one exception--the happiest period in his life--was spent with a cosmic entity that looked like a house who liked him fixing it, and if that isn't an obvious metaphor as well, I'm not sure what to tell you."

Christ. "Right." He needs coffee, Jesus. Staring to add to that, he frowns, searching Cas's face and remembers something. You said Tony wanted to check on Nate--something happen last night?"

"It's not public knowledge yet, as the family needs to be informed," Cas answers, and wow, Dean doesn't like anything that starts like that. "There was a death while they were surveying the library on Sixth for potential use as a shelter; one of the volunteers slipped on a broken tile and fell five stories. Tony told me when he stopped to ask for Nate's assistance again when he was available and ask how he was doing."

Right, it just keeps coming. "He saw it."

"He tried to catch him."

What the hell is wrong with this morning? "You talk to Nate?"

"Briefly, but he was exhausted and I felt rest would do him more good. Tony said the other witness already gave him a report, so he didn't feel there was any need to question Nate until he'd rested and eaten," Cas answers, mouth tightening before turning to look at Dean. "He helped Callisto and her subordinates with the body--which after a drop from over a hundred and fifty feet could not have been pleasant--and then insisted on returning to work until James fetched him and put him to bed. At which time Amanda got him up to count bullets and Tara erased his calculations when he wasn't looking because after over two years, _now_ is the time to punish Nate for his sins with sleep deprivation and sabotage of his work."

"I don't think--"

"Or Sean is insecure regarding Zack's previous relationship with Nate and is expressing it in the most ridiculous way possible," Cas continues, and yeah, that's what Dean was thinking. "Mira and James have been spending a great deal of time with Nate the last few weeks, and I don't think it's unrelated."

"Yeah, I noticed at the party." He wonders how long this has been going on and what exactly James and Mira saw that got them sticking with Nate like this. "You said they're worried. Are we talking the kind of worried where Nate shouldn't be wandering around on five story buildings in case of conveniently loose tiles?"

"I don't think so," Cas says, staring at the candles. "It's not just this, he--have you ever been tired?"

Dean comes up beside him and fixes his gaze on the candles as well. "Yeah," he answers quietly. "So tired I couldn't stop moving even though I wanted to. Couldn't even remember how."

"Yes. I didn't realize--" Cas abruptly stiffens. "Do you hear that?"

Dean actually doesn't (or know why that's relevant), but Cas is already out the door, and Dean thinks _coffee_ and follows him from sheer lack of any other idea what to do. By the time he reaches the front room, Cas is half-way up the spiral staircase, and Dean's got a very bad feeling why there is hammering and ignores the (not exactly bewildered but he's gonna say guilty) eyes on him as he jogs (fast) behind Cas and almost runs into him when he reaches the top.

Across the open area (weren't there more people here earlier?), by a definitely closed door, Sean is hammering (and ruining) the hideously shiny wood paneling. Dean's gonna go out on a limb and say that Nate is definitely not sleeping but may be considering the alternative of jumping out the window after all. And Cas hasn't moved an inch.

Resting a hand on Cas's back--and relieved he doesn't shrug it off--Dean cocks his head. "Hey," he says clearly, watching Sean jerk and almost drop the hammer, "is this why they stopped stalking us?"

Sean turns around and God, the look on his face; great, but Dean is kind of not okay with the reason he's seeing it right now. And this is doing nothing at all for Cas right now, especially after yesterday.

"Where I'm from," Cas says softly, but the entire goddamn building seems to drop ten degrees with each word, "we do our rivals the courtesy of offering challenge when they face us, not smile and wait for them to turn their back."

Looking at Sean's pale face, wide eyes staring at Cas like he's never seen him before, Dean just barely restrains himself from calmly crossing to that door and punching him in his incredibly stupid face.

"Cas," he says softly, pitching his voice for Cas's ears alone. "Let me handle it, okay?"

The blue eyes flicker to him, alien and chillingly cold, but to Dean's relief, it's all surface: leftovers from yesterday in the mess and the argument with Amanda downstairs, which at this rate seems to be setting the tone of the day. Cocking his head, Dean waits, and after a long moment, he feels the tight muscles beneath his hand loosen.

"As a recent victim of a mob," Cas says, which has the happy effect of making Sean close his eyes, "I feel recusing myself from judgment would be best."

"As the partner of a recent victim, I'm okay with doing it," Dean assures him, squeezing Cas's shoulder and catching one corner of Cas's mouth uptick briefly, there and gone. "Any coffee in this building?"

"If there's not, there will be." He glances at Sean briefly before he turns away, and Dean sees the deepening creases across his forehead, mouth thinned and tight, and it's like how Dean found him at their old headquarters last night all over again. He watches Cas go back down the stairs, one hand rising toward his temple in an aborted gesture that he suspects is one fuck of a stress headache already in progress. He makes a note to get someone to find Cas's art supplies stat, or at least an enemy to kill; he's not gonna be picky.

"Look, Dean--" Sean makes the incredibly obvious mistake of saying.

"Shut up." Sean shuts his mouth. "So what, Zack yell Nate's name last night or something?"

Sean flushes, and it's possible he might be thinking about punching him. He kind of hopes so, even better if Sean actually tries; he'd feel better, Sean would feel worse pretty goddamn fast, and he'd have a clear idea of what to do with this. All the times he thought about the consequences of his decisions as Chitaqua's leader, how he'd handle situations of every variety great and small, none had included how to handle a group of (supposed) adults, number of at least two (and he has no illusions that Tara was the only guilty party on Sean's team), getting together to fuck up Nate's bullet homework and mess with his sleep by hammering on the wall for fun and that's the part that he knows that's occurred in the last few hours. Who the fuck _does that_ ; this shit doesn't even make _junior high_ level.

"Where are James and Mira?"

Sean seems to be having trouble looking at him. "Volunteer Center with Zack. They got up early to go help out."

"Had to wait until he was alone, right." Sean doesn't answer, but not like it's not pretty goddamn obvious. "That would be when Amanda went to wake Nate up at--what time?"

"Four-thirty."

"To count bullets, and Tara to mess up his count and make him do it all again for over two hours now?" Sean closes his eyes. "So Tara, you with the hammer, I just need to find out what Lena and Kim were doing---did you actually recruit your _team_ to fuck with your boyfriend's ex?"

Sean did do something very much like that, and from the look on his face, not only just noticed but may almost grasp how deeply fucked up this was on concept.

"Great teamwork," Dean adds, for what is a fucking knife for but to twist. Turning, he goes to look down over the railing and the sea of very worried eyes who were casually avoiding the second floor just a few minutes ago for no particular reason. Before he can comment, the door opens and Alicia and her team come in and abruptly stop short, looking around in bewilderment before following the collective gaze upward.

This is Alicia, of course. "Hey, Dean," she says cheerfully, unbuttoning her coat while her team picks up the slack by looking deeply weirded out by the number of unmoving people around them. "I'm free for the next two hours; give me things to do for I bore easily. Perimeter need help? I can do that."

Dean makes an effort not to grin. "And what are you doing in two hours?"

"Could be anything," she admits, cocking her head. "But definitely something. You can't rush revelations, Dean; then it's just guesses and might as well get yourself a magic eight ball and be done with it, you know what I mean? So? Things to do until then?"

"Cas has got a job for you," he answers, and she brightens. "He's in the--"

"Situation Room," Alicia finishes, nodding as she pulls off a glove with her teeth. "Got it, thanks!"

Dean watches her bounce out of sight with her team before scanning the group again and finding his little trifecta, all together and looking very nervous. "You three," he says, and sees Tara's shoulders stiffen. "You want to come up here for a minute?"

"Dean, they were just--"

"Following orders?" The resigned clatter of feet on metal is like music--shitty music, but at least not alt-rock--and he watches them trudge by him like they're going to the fucking principal's office. Surveying them, he can't help but reflect these people are theoretically competent to carry and use military-grade weaponry at their discretion.

"Wait here." Dean goes to the door, knocks three times--habit--and pushes it open to take in Nate sitting on his sleeping bag against the opposite wall right under the window, expression eerily blank. Carefully, he closes the door, and--nothing.

"Nate?"

Nate starts, squinting at him uncertainly. "Insomnia. I was just about to--"

"When did it start, what were they doing, who's involved, and why the hell didn't you report it?" he asks before he can stop himself.

Nate's eyes widen. "Dean--"

"And don't tell me nothing's going on, I just watched nothing make a fuck of a dent in the wall outside the door." Nate's mouth snaps shut. "Why are you protecting them?"

"I don't care." He looks away, shoulders slumping briefly, and Dean gets exactly why Cas asked him if he'd ever been tired; like calls to like, and the only surprise here is Nate was able to hide it this goddamn long. "I'm not just saying that, Dean. Wish I was."

What the fuck do you say to that? "I care."

Nate's head snaps up, looking so surprised Dean would be insulted if he could forget the first half of that convo with Cas a few minutes ago. "Uh." Nate squints at him. "I appreciate it?"

"You lose a point for the question mark," Dean tells him, and Nate's mouth twitches reluctantly as he leans back against the wall. "Look, I get it, but come on; if you gotta start outsourcing because you don't think you're making yourself miserable enough and need the extra help--"

"I'm not doing that," Nate protests, straightening, and there we go.

"That's exactly what you're doing, no matter what bullshit you fed to James and Mira to keep them from reporting it," Dean says, and has the satisfaction of Nate looking away.

"I'm on his team," Nate says finally. "He's a good leader--"

"If he was just being a good leader, he would have reported it," Dean says deliberately. "Friends, on the other hand, are the people that make sure they're around so there's nothing that needs reporting. How long, Nate?"

"About a week, maybe, but it wasn't anything like this. Just…." He trails off, searching Dean's face. "Just fucking with me, that's all, I swear."

"And if I ask James and Mira?"

"They'll tell you the same thing. You know them, Dean," he adds, and Dean doesn't miss the thread of warmth in his voice. "If it was more than that, they would have come to you or Cas no matter what I said."

Yeah, that he believes. "Cas told me what happened at the library."

Nate stiffens, and Dean regrets bringing it up. "Cas said the report could wait. Me and three other guys were on the roof and--"

"I'm not asking for a report," he says hastily. "All I want to know now is if you're okay."

Nate hesitates before nodding. "Yeah. Though that could be the sleep deprivation talking."

"That a hint?" Nate looks at him worriedly before making a face. "Look, get some sleep, okay? Tony wants you back, but it's just a loaner; I'm expecting him to return you in one piece. I'll be pretty pissed if you walk out a window because you fell asleep on your feet."

Nate nods and sighs before reaching for the top of the sleeping bag. "Got it."

Dean watches until he's actually in the sleeping bag before carefully going back out and closing the door with a click that seems to echo. He's halfway to the stairs before he remembers Sean and company are still waiting. He still has no idea what to do, but thinking about Nate slumped by that goddamn window when he opened the door is pretty goddamn inspiring.

"This is done," he says finally, and sees them all nod, very possibly experiencing a vague feeling that has nothing to do with what they did and everything to do with getting caught doing it. Focusing on Sean, he tips his head toward the members of his team. "They were just following orders?"

Sean nods quickly. "Yeah. Dean, it was my fault, not theirs."

Dean waits for the three suspects to deny it; they don't. Good: he can work with this.

"You get this isn't downtime at Chitaqua," he says quietly. "I don't know if you noticed, but right now we have real problems, not your issues with your boyfriend's sexual history. This would have been shitty anyway, but you couldn't have picked a worse time if you tried. Congratulations: you almost beat out Kyle there and only because you didn't add 'high', 'drunk', and 'disobeying a direct order'."

Sean's flush can probably be seen from space right now. "I know, Dean."

"So you probably also know that right now, I can't afford to demote you when I don't have enough teams here as it is. You're good at the job, and more importantly, I don't have anyone to replace you." Sean nods jerkily, and if Dean saw a trace of satisfaction in that, he'd demote him now, but he doesn't. "When we get back to Chitaqua, assume you're losing your team and suspended from patrol for the immediate future." Sean nods again, and Dean turns his attention to the other three. "You three will be off patrol, probably permanently, but I'll leave the final decision to Cas."

"What?" Sean asks blankly, but Dean's watching the other three: shock, horror, anger, a fuckload of regret, but still the wrong goddamn kind. "Dean, why--"

"You're good at your job--most of the time--but they failed at theirs," he answers Sean before turning his attention back to them. "I can't put a team in the field that if they were told to jump off a cliff, they wouldn't even ask for a fucking rope. Or have the common sense to stop their leader from doing it himself. You three couldn't even manage to separate 'work-related orders' from 'being used as a weapon of petty revenge against leader's boyfriend's ex'. I'm not sure you should be allowed to wear weapons at this point, since I can't trust you'd know when it's okay to use them."

"It wasn't like that," Sean argues frantically, while Kim, Lena, and Tara look satisfactorily stricken. "That's not fair, it was _me_ \--"

"Fair?" 

Dean thinks: let me tell you about fair. Go outside and take a long look at the entrance point where people are waiting who walked all fucking night in the snow to get here when their cars ran out of gas. Talk to Manuel and Teresa about how they feel knowing the people who tried to burn her alive could be out in that crowd waiting to get inside; you know what else? They're gonna let them in anyway, no questions asked. 

Tony lost one of his people last night falling from a roof to get just a few more buildings safe enough for shelter; the town is emptying its winter stores to feed the people coming in and when that's gone, there's no grocery stores to stock up from until spring; two weeks ago, they lost sixty-three of their people, ten of them kids, to outsiders coming here pretending they needed shelter and a new place to start over; they're still not turning anyone away.

You go to the mess for coffee and get jumped by five guys and a bullet in the wall that just missed your head just for existing.

All of that--all of it, Sean--and then you can talk to me about fair.

"You want fair?" Who is Dean not to give him exactly what he wants? "I don't have time to deal with this shit right now, and Cas sure as fuck doesn't deserve picking up the slack, so guess what: you're gonna do it for us. So here are my orders; until we get back to Chitaqua, they're still your team and you're responsible for them, which means I need you to watch them every minute that we're here."

"What?" 

"I don’t trust them," Dean answers. "But I think that I can trust you to make sure they don't jump off a cliff--or shoot themselves--because someone ordered them to, which at this moment is a genuine concern." Sean stills. "To assure the safety of themselves and those around them, you, personally, will disarm them now and leave their weapons at the front desk downstairs, and they aren't allowed anything more dangerous than a spoon--or a fork--while in this building. When you have shifts on perimeter or have any duties that require leaving this building armed, you will give them their weapons back inside the front door and when you come back, you will disarm them yourself once you're inside the door. Until they are safely behind Chitaqua's wards and I don't have to worry about them being a danger to themselves or others, you will keep them in your line of sight at all times." He just manages not to grin at Sean's expression. "Sean, be the charismatic leader you have proved you are and make sure they don't disobey these orders or you'll have to discipline them. Not sure how, so you'll have to come to me so I can think of something." 

"Dean, that's--" Sean bursts out incredulously.

"--petty? You think?" Sean shuts his mouth. "This isn't a life lesson, and I'm not here to teach you the error of your ways, but you might consider this an example of how a professional gets it done when it comes to petty and I'm barely getting started." He cocks his head. "Do you understand your orders, Sean?"

"Yes, sir," Sean grates out. 

"Leave their weapons at the reception desk downstairs," Dean says, then frowns. "After we get a desk, so hold onto them until then, about an hour. You're dismissed."

Sean nods jerkily, and Dean goes back to the railing, peering down at the still-silent masses who really need better hobbies, but until then he'll just have to keep them busy himself.

"You got an hour to get this building secure, reception area clear, pick your rooms, get armed, and ready for duty. New shift schedule goes up after the meeting at one; until then, if you need something to do, get your ass to the Volunteer Center and maybe help out people who have walked twelve goddamn hours _in the goddamn snow_ to get here." He searches the blurred faces looking up at him and takes a deep breath: people aren't always good at being people, but that doesn't mean they don't get better at it. "Time to save the world, and this is how we start doing it. And someone find us a desk and a coffee pot." He searches their faces and breathes again; just a bad morning, that's all. It happens. "Dismissed."

* * *

"Hour and a half at most, no problem," Alicia agrees as she goes out the door--almost skipping, because Alicia--and finally, he and Cas are finally alone in the Situation Room.

Dean seriously considers locking the door, calmly crossing the room, taking Cas's replacement laptop (thing he will set on fire in the goddamn street) where he's furiously rewriting the shift schedule and organizing them all into a smoothly running militia machine, and seeing how Cas feels about quickies during work hours. Less fun but more work-appropriate, he could update Cas on the Sean situation (handled, thank you). For that matter, this being work hours, he could maybe find out what work he should be doing, being leader and all. It's gotta involve more than disciplining people for acting like cranky six year olds or giving speeches from the second floor to a captive audience, though he's not knocking the rush.

And yet, he can't quite make himself stop staring at the two tables shoved together that was the first thing he saw when he came in and could be considered a concrete display of the concept of non-sequitur. 

Ruthlessly organized in horizontal rows by size and vertically by color, with a colony of weirdly shaped ones in the very front, Dean stares blankly at what appears to be a candle army taking up the entirety of two tables. Ten rows of thirty in lines so straight that even a ruler couldn't pull this shit off; this takes the kind of anal-retentive precision that only a stressed (ex-) angel can provide. It's not that Dean objects to candles in general or in a variety of sizes and colors, but--

\--does it smell like mint in here? He tears his gaze away from candle central to track down a blue-green example by Cas's laptop, flame burning merrily, and okay, that explains that.

The tables of candles, on the other hand....

"Cas," he starts, surveying their candle army again just in case revelation decides to happen (it doesn't), "I give up. Why do we have three hundred random candles? If you tell me it's because of potential electricity loss so light, that would make sense, yeah, but I don't buy it."

Dean listens to Cas close his laptop and the slide of his chair against the floor before footsteps cross the room to join him in his observation of all the candles…in all the colors and sizes, none of these can be found in stores, oh God. 

Reaching to pick one a sky-blue example of the power of completionism in action, he freezes at feel of smooth wax against his fingertips, rolling it over his palm in surprise.

"Dean?" 

Frowning, Dean studies the chiseled exterior, narrow veins of lighter blue and off-white twisting across the surface, and scans the decorative swirls for any pattern as he chases down the feeling; it's not the slippery-slimey feel of wrongness he's sometimes picked up when hunting and touching shit he shouldn't, but it's definitely _something_. "What…."

"Infused wax by a master class practitioner," Cas says calmly, and Dean almost drops it, looking at him incredulously. "She'll be an adept before her fifth decade if I'm any judge of quality. That kind of talent tends to require time to gain strength and precision."

"These are _magic candles_? Why do we have magic candles?" Dean just barely stops himself from asking if there's such a thing as magic candles: obviously, there are, so might as well get to the important questions. "Wait, where did you even _get_ them?"

"Wendy," Cas says like it's a universal answer to all the questions anyone could ask. "She had them delivered late last night."

"Who's _Wendy_?" He wonders if this is how Amanda felt yesterday and reluctantly gives her props for not grabbing Cas and _shaking_ relevant words out of him. Wait, candles: that booth Cas was hanging out at, talking to a woman--hey, bet that's Wendy. Who sells candles that are also magic. "Wendy, the merchant you were talking to on New Year's Eve? She's a witch?"

Cas nods agreement. "And sibling to the mayor of Noak," he adds, like he's building a character defense. "She also makes candles for Teresa."

"And she's a _witch_." Dean looks at the blue candle suspiciously, but--is that blueberry? Fresh blueberries, even, the kind so ripe they're almost bursting out their skin when you eat them. "What do they do?"

"These are primarily related to the influence of mood and state of mind," Cas explains while Dean processes 'witch' from all angles. Cas wasn't wrong about his general feeling on the subject of practitioners, but he does get life as a hunter means he generally deals with the percentage who do harm for fun and not those who just have a talent and do cool things with it. "Nothing that contravenes free will, of course."

"Like what, aromatherapy?"

"Like aromatherapy created to elicit a specific response that always works and exactly as it is designed to, yes," Cas agrees, picking up an off-white pillar candle as long as Dean's arm with a swirl of glittering gold just beneath the surface. "The primal human brain is hardwired to respond to scent, but how can be idiosyncratic and sensitivity is also a factor; these simply take advantage of the brain's own functions while assuring it responds appropriately and without fail."

"How?"

"That's the difference between aromatherapy and a very skilled witch," Cas answers patiently. "Wendy's infusions are successful because they're backed by her will." He glances at the blue candle as Dean sets it down warily. "That one promotes serenity and a placid frame of mind."

Dean looks at it skeptically: he can state without fear of contradiction he does not feel serene or placid. Scent's nice, though. "And that works?"

"Extremely well," Cas answers. "I tested it yesterday and it was very effective."

He starts to ask when and then glances back at the candle still burning merrily by Cas's laptop; now that he thinks about it, he vaguely remembers the scent of mint in headquarters yesterday. Huh: he thought he imagined it. 

Surveying the candle table again, he makes himself be open-minded; witches are just people, who can be good or bad at being people like anyone else, they can just be bad at it in weirder and sometimes dangerous ways. Still--candles. Cocking his head, he wonders what the others do: make you happy, sleepy--is that a mood? What does that even mean, a mood, put you in the mood for….huh.

"So," he starts, pretending this is purely an intellectual exercise, "she can do that with anything? I mean, when you say mood, what does that cover?"

"If you mean anger or fear…." Cas shrugs. "She could--and probably very well--but unless I misjudged her severely, she'd probably find that as abhorrent as you or I would."

God, he wishes that was it (also, good to know), but no. "No, I mean….never mind."

There's a long moment of silence before Cas says, "Sex."

Dean stares at the candles intently and doesn't deny a goddamn thing.

"Desire," Cas continues, shoulder brushing against Dean's in an electric charge and if this ends with Dean getting off on vocabulary lessons, he won't be surprised at all. "Hunger. Lust. Obsession. Passion."

Dean glares at him (yes, all that, obviously). "What? Just--"

"Curious?"

Meeting the amused blue eyes, Dean smiles slowly and watches them darken. "That'd be it, yeah." 

Pausing to carefully move the candle Dean put down an eighth of an inch to bring it back into alignment with the others, Cas leans back against the table. "Wendy did say she does experimental and custom work, and this would definitely qualify. Considering the subject, she'll need both our consent first, of course, as well as an explanation of what exactly is desired from the final product. To satisfy your….curiosity"

Dean wants to believe that's a dealbreaker (tell her what is desired? Really?) but now that it's on the table--almost literally, like right on the table in front of him…. "If you're gonna be making new friends," he starts, casually appropriating Cas's personal space, "you should introduce me to them."

"I think she knows who the leader of Chitaqua is."

"As your boyfriend," Dean clarifies, hooking his fingers in the waist of Cas's jeans. "Human skills, Cas."

Cas tilts his head, mouth curving faintly. "As you wish." 

"So you didn't answer my question--why all the candles?" Dean asks, stepping between Cas's knees and sliding his thumbs over the soft skin above his hips beneath his shirts.

Cas makes a face. "There were so many options. I wasn't sure which I wanted, so.…"

"So got 'em all and figure it out later," Dean finishes, nodding: Snuggies Mark II: All the Candles confirmed. "What'd you trade?"

"I'm not sure," he says, reaching to unnecessarily smooth Dean's unbuttoned flannel, fingers tugging at the edges. "Amanda handled the transaction."

A question he forgot to ask Cas that day: exactly how many Snuggies constitute all the sizes and all the colors including those not found in stores? "How many boxes is all of them?"

"Fourteen that she brought with her, one hundred to a box: twelve infused in various combinations and two mundane, one unscented," Cas says, meeting Dean's eyes with bar none the most effective use of 'innocent' Dean's ever been privileged to see as he tugs at Dean's collar, tongue flickering out to drag across his upper lip. "Amanda assured me that we could afford it."

Dean walks right into it without regret. "Anything you want." And means it.

"Thank you." Reaching up, Cas braces his forearms on Dean's shoulders and draws him closer until he can feel the press of Cas's cock against his thigh, and oh hell yes. Giving up on subtlety, Dean shoves his hands under the layers of flannel and thermal and t-shirt, palms sliding up the sharply cut bones of Cas's hips and over warm skin to settle low on his back, following the outlines of bones and faint ridges of scars he wants to learn by touch as well by sight, Cas's history written into his skin. "Werewolf."

Dean raises his eyebrows, spreading his hand out to the right of Cas's spine and finding all four. Sliding a thumb along the outermost, he feels the thick scar tissue beneath the deceptively thin, raised lines. "Eighteen, twenty months?"

"Sixteen and a half," Cas answers, smiling faintly. "I heal at the same rate as a human, just one that doesn't have their resources divided to fight infection. Or so Vera thinks."

"She'd know." It takes a minute for him to get this is an invitation, that if Dean wants to know, he can ask and Cas wants to answer. Dean has a list and it only grows longer, but on further thought, it's the kind of list where show and tell should be done in nakeder conditions. On a bed. Freeing one hand, he tucks Cas's hair back, knowing he'll never get tired of how Cas stills when he does that, and leans forward, breathing, "You gotta tell me about that sometime," before tasting Cas's smile.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize: I was--literally--working until past midnight last night and most of the weekend, for releases like midnight to five AM for validation, who knew? There might next week be a Monday or Tuesday night posting, but it shouldn't be any later than that. And thank you for your patience! It's very much appreciated.

_\--Day 152, continued--_

The Situation Room--as its apparently known to everyone (even people he's pretty sure haven't been here)--is now redolent with the scent of fresh lemon from the three fat yellow pillar candles settled on a battered former bedside table with hastily taped leg near the door.

(Dean's not sure if they're having any effect on his 'mood' (or that 'clarity', 'focus', and 'inspiration' were moods) but he's really enjoying how the first thing anyone sees when they come in is the table of candles and the stages of 'what the fuck' that follow. Also, the lemon scent is unbelievable; it's like someone just cut one open in front of him or something.)

Despite having been what he suspects was grand central station for lawyer meetings, he's starting to like the room. Sure, evil building, but the textured beige actually kind of works for it, and now that they're settling in, it's not that bad. The one thing this town doesn't lack is a lot of useless furniture (better furniture than this, he'd think, but whatever). They now have five (5) tables, chairs enough for at least fifteen people (thirty if there's sharing involved) and a hideous couch, and even some vaguely abstract art as soon as they find wherever the hell Cas banished his table-art-map.

More than that though; he's already getting spoiled having an actual room (that's not their cabin) in which they can meet with a number greater than twelve people without effort (and even with twelve a lot of maneuvering). And also--this is key here-- _not in the same place he and Cas eat and sleep_. And will be having sex like a lot. 

(Okay, yeah, they're gonna have to do something about that.)

So yeah, not so bad, and the amenities are nothing to sneeze at; for reasons lawyer (he guesses) the meeting room has a direct line to the kitchen and back stairs (why does a law firm need a full kitchen anyway?), its own (really nice) non-functional elevator separate from the one in the front, and an attached bathroom, which is where he had the satisfaction of seeing Joe's eyes narrow. It's three rooms, all granite and dark (expensive) looking wood and shiny fixtures, complete with (big) Jacuzzi tub, an enclosed shower the size of their cabin's kitchen with five separate heads, on a platform (a _platform_ ), and a sauna. Off the _meeting room_.

("Eight," Cas said after staring at the Jacuzzi speculatively and doing what Dean assumed was experience-based sex-to-person-space math. He's got no one to blame but himself for that one; when he and Joe (in retrospect, pretty goddamn stupidly) wondered out loud how many lawyers you could fit in a Jacuzzi that size, they did it in the hearing of a person who lives to answer rhetorical questions. "Sixteen in the sauna, twelve in the shower, but I wouldn't recommend the latter due to the risk of concussions.")

The obvious lawyer-sex bathroom isn't even the weirdest thing they've found, though discovering that there's a larger version on the third floor off what was definitely their soul-selling lawyer's glass-walled office with attached balcony that takes up a quarter of the goddamn floor was definitely up there. The rings bolted into the walls at different not-entirely-random points were bad enough, but Cas raising his eyebrows in what was unmistakably recognition did nothing for anyone, or at least for Dean, since Joe was with them. During a tour of the rest of building with Joe (because Cas needed time with his replacement laptop and he can deal), they discovered the roof has a helipad (a helipad. In goddamn Ichabod) and the remains of a rooftop garden, and even Joe had to take a moment when they were called down to blink at the (empty) swimming pool tucked into the basement along with a small (but kind of nice) gym.

(Dean stands by this being a shitty, shitty thing to sell your soul for, but if you were the type who prized possessions and group sex Jacuzzis and hardwoods and marble everythings, in that sense he has to admit the guy (or woman) didn't do too badly. He's got to wonder what it was like to work here, and if their lawyer was a good boss; if he was, must have been the best job ever.)

Dean also finds out what his job is when not being inspiring and leading people; it's to be given a clipboard and a fresh sheet of paper and sent on his way to find out where everyone is staying and Joe glumly following along with a stack of numbers and labels to tape on the door of each occupied room or common room and check the functionality of the bathrooms.

(All are working, more or less, but Dean doesn't fool himself anyone is gonna use them if they can help it. Bathroom, breaks, and downtime are gonna be on the third floor every chance they get even though he gave a direct order that no, the Jacuzzi could not be tested to make sure it works, come on. He wonders if he should get Evelyn or whoever's front desk to put up a sign up sheet, then remembers that no one in this building will care.)

All and all, the only sane part is touring their new armory on the first floor in a repurposed something room with a good lock. Surveying the metal shelving units crammed into all the available space, Dean nods approval as Natalie explains the logical organization thing going on while one of Amanda's students assists, a tall brunette in her mid-thirties who smiles wryly at his attention and gets to her feet to extend a hand.

"You probably don't remember--"

"Vicky," he interrupts, shaking her hand; some things stick with you, and those reports from the attack on Ichabod he can almost recite verbatim. "Maggie was your sister, right?" She nods, surprised smile fading. "Amanda told us a lot about her. And you, offering to take her place."

She licks her lips. "First thing Maggie did when we came to Ichabod was volunteer for patrol. She was always better at sports, it was easy for her. I was more the--you know, stay home and crochet type, but I went to all her games."

"What'd she play?" he asks, touching her side to move them out of Natalie's way as she goes for yet more boxes. 

"Everything, but mostly basketball and volleyball." She starts to smile again, brown eyes warming. "I was her running buddy, though; said sunlight was good and I should learn that more than in theory and actually see it once in a while. Amanda was surprised; she made me run laps, I could do that. The rest…."

"It takes time," he says when she trails off, reminded it's only been a couple of weeks since she lost her sister. "Really. Amanda didn't tell you stories about Joe yet?"

"I heard that," Joe says from outside the door, but he doesn't sound annoyed. "It's all lies, especially--pretty much all of it. By the way, Dean, we got more rooms to inspect. Cas gave us a list and--"

"Yeah, fine." Dean blows out a breath, and has the pleasure of seeing Vicky relax, smile returning. "Duty calls. See you around. By the way, Haruhi's your team leader in training, right? You see her around this morning? Or Derek?"

Vicky tilts her head. "Dolores said she was still in isolation when we went by this morning."

Huh. "Thanks," he says, waving at Natalie on his way out and waits until they're well down the hall before turning to Joe and then realizes something. "Why is Vicky here? Doesn't she have--things to do?"

"Not with training suspended," Joe reminds him blandly. "Yes, all our recruits do, but they got downtime like everyone else--Alison's orders, by the way--and seem to like spending it here. They've been stopping by to help us get the place in shape, bringing snacks, hunt up anything we need, show us where to do laundry."

Dean frantically calculates how many changes of clothes he still has and remembers he packed for a week. "Good call. Where?"

"Down the street somewhere," Joe answers. "At least until Nicole finishes rehooking whatever needs hooking in the one downstairs off the gym. Alonzo is going to work on the kitchen when he goes off duty at noon, no idea why, but I assume he knows. Kind of like having interns, now that I think about it, but they're actually useful."

Dean wonders if this place had interns before and shakes himself. (But seriously, what was the first day like? Here's the helicopter pad, the swimming pool, and the downstairs orgy bathroom?)

"Right, but--hold up." Noticing how close they are to the reception area from the sound of cheerful voices, he grabs Joe's elbow and drags him into a conveniently empty room (beige, again). How many rooms does this building have anyway? "Why would Haruhi be in isolation?"

"Unexpected and unprovoked outbreak of homicidal violence in the mess?" Joe asks with attached sarcasm. "Alison and Teresa gave the order as soon as Naresh saw the mess. Teresa can't guarantee the wards would catch anyone before stage one."

"They can't hold them at the entrance point…." Dean makes a face; most of them have been there for hours already and it's fucking cold.. "Stupid question: how _are_ they managing to hold the entrance point now? I saw the numbers out there, Joe; if those people wanted to stampede the line, they could. It's a _rope_."

"They don't know that, and we're not going to tell them," Joe says bluntly. "First rule of crowd control; you don't let the crowd guess you even feel like you need to control them, much less that you're doing it. Right now, it's just cold and they're tired, and Dolores has Lewis on the line pulling medical cases and Serafina kids under six and a parent with kids under one, anyone nursing--"

"You'd think that'd piss off the rest."

"These are mostly families," Joe answers. "Mom and Dad want their kids okay, families want grandma somewhere warm to rest, partners want their spouses with babies out of the cold. They brought their families to get them somewhere safe; they see the most vulnerable are going to be okay, the wait is worth it. Mostly, anyway. They're also exhausted, which trust me is a depressing plus here, but when that storm comes in--self-preservation is gonna kick in and that line's gonna break one way or another."

Dean stares at Joe for a long minute, then shoves the clipboard in his hands and goes out into the hall, crossing the reception room and through the door out into the street to look up at the churning-grey sky, scanning the horizon and picking out the distant, heavier darkness in the west that's been growing for days. Even yesterday, though, he doesn't think it looked like this. When the snow happened two weeks ago, it didn't look like this.

Hearing Joe come up beside him, Dean says, "You know, I didn't ask this and that was stupid: how big is the storm? Nice snowy evening, overnight…."

"The lack of meteorologists in our lives are a problem," Joe answers, following his gaze. "You didn't miss anything; I just found out when I went to set up the meeting with Alison."

"Found out what?"

Joe's mouth tightens. "Dina and Antonio have been watching, trust me, but early this morning they went to Alison and told her to upgrade storm prep, just in case. She's meeting with all the leads now."

"They weren't sure until then or it built really fast?"

"I got the impression they were really surprised," Joe says reluctantly and Dean just bites back a curse. "Maybe worse than the one a few weeks ago, but how much, hard to say."

Focusing on the entrance point, the faceless mass of bodies and people spilling into view from the Third Street entrance point--how many people are out there?--the enormity of it hits him all at once, what they're dealing with, what Ichabod's trying to do right now with a resident population at barely a thousand. Why Tony's got everyone with hands helping with the buildings in near all-day shifts, Dolores' extra infirmary, Volunteer Services showing up like it was always there when Claudia got it up and running by yesterday mid-morning, only hours after they realized what was happening.

"You're telling me we have a local refugee crisis _and_ potential blizzard?" Dean asks. "We got who the hell knows how many people walking in the snow out there and there's a fucking _blizzard_ coming?"

"I know it sounds bad--"

"No, it _is_ bad _right now_ ," Dean interrupts, unable to look away from all those gathered people and more coming every minute. "And now we're talking near-future natural disaster on our front steps!" He turns to look up at Joe. "Tell me that Alison didn't move us to Second because she thinks they won't be able to keep the grid powering anything but Second, Main, and Syracuse and didn't want us to freeze to death with--"

"She didn't," Joe says quietly. "This is Alison--and Tony, for that matter. Walter's at the plant now, doing--no idea, but give them some credit here. It's--Dean, you get this isn't in your responsibilities and I don't mean in the sense of 'other people'; you _can't_ do anything. None of us can but keep the perimeter stable and help out where we're needed. Residents--and early arrivals--have been storm prepping since yesterday, so it's just--you know, leveling up. Mercedes is leading the groups getting the livestock under cover and also, because this is shit you share, the culling has been going on since last night, so think about that at lunch."

He gives Joe a sour look and catches the faint, playful grin. "Thanks." Which reminds him. "I left yours and Rachel's names at the mess when I was there yesterday equating 'bullet' with 'incident'; just tell 'em when you get something to eat and it'll be porkless, promise."

"You didn't have to do that," Joe protests. "Judaism is practical when it comes to food restrictions and emergencies, and I, my friend, am very practical indeed."

"Yeah, but you also hate it more than squirrel," he explains, and Joe makes a face that's not in any way a denial. "Besides, variety in meat isn't a problem; trust me, that's just more chorizo and bacon for the rest of us who really like it." Jerking his head at Joe's skeptical look, Dean starts back to the building when he can't ignore Joe's shivering (or his own, fine). "Over a quarter of the residents don't eat beef, they got kosher, halal, and vegetarian covered fine, not a problem, but Jordan and Deepika need the lists so they know how much to make of everything so they don't run out of anything. Leah's not here to add you and Rachel, and I figured you'd forget to mention it and end up resenting bacon, which dude, that's just wrong."

"I'd just give it to you," Joe counters. "And resentfully watch you eat it."

Dean frowns. "I didn't think of that."

They're almost at the door when Dean remembers what they were first talking about. "Haruhi's in isolation."

"Yeah," Joe says patiently. "So Vicky told us. Why?"

"It's been over eighteen hours since what happened in the mess," he answers as Joe pushes open the door. "Window for Croat is eight hours on the outside, so why's she still there?"

Joe frowns. "Want me to find out?"

"Let's talk to Alison first," he says. "By the way, any idea what Alicia was doing this morning?" She was in the infirmary this morning, so she might know what's up with Haruhi, but it occurs to him he has no idea why she was there in the first place.

"Not sure," Joe admits, letting the door close behind him as he follows Dean into the neat reception area, clear of weapons and condoms, and Jeremy at the new front desk looking very earnestly bored. Waving, Dean starts toward the Situation Room. "The ways of Alicia are mysterious and not for our kind to understand, which is everyone."

With Vera, he remembers suddenly. Who didn't say anything about going back there when they talked this morning, either. He assumed emergency something and Dolores needed her help. "Vera still at the infirmary?"

"Yeah, she sent Esperanza to tell us she'd be back in time for the meeting with Alison." Hands tucked in his coat pockets, he gives Dean a thoughtful look. "Something bothering you? Alicia reports to Amanda, just ask her."

"I did," Dean says, wondering if he should be pissed or impressed. "She distracted me. Just said Alicia would report about the investigation before noon."

Joe is suspiciously silent but it's not like Dean doesn't know what he's thinking.

"I'm not going to just walk in there and shoot them, come on!"

"I know that," Joe says reassuringly before adding, "but once you're in that room, will _you_ remember that?"

"That's--"

"Anyway," Joe interrupts, loudly, "you can't do everything--"

"I don't do anything!" he exclaims, stopping short of the closed door to the Situation Room to glare at Joe. 

"--and no offense, but this kind of thing--it's Alicia's thing, trust me."

Yeah, he was wondering about that. "Why _is_ Alicia handling the investigation, anyway?"

"Because it's her thing, like I just said," Joe states, and Dean wonders uneasily if this is one of those things he should already know, but the look on Joe's face is less 'my leader is secretly someone else or he'd know this already' and more 'smug'. "So--no, you gotta experience it to understand. Which I'm assuming is what's going to happen when she reports before noon."

"What?" Dean asks in frustration, but Joe, looking inscrutable, just starts toward the door. Jogging to catch up, he glares up at him and then decides a change in tactics is in order. "Did you know we have nets in inventory in Chitaqua?"

Joe gives him a wide-eyed look of utter don't care. "No, why?"

"Was wondering why Alicia needed them," he says, and watches Joe's hand freeze on the door knob. "Something about situational awareness and the element of surprise or something."

Joe stares at him in horror.

"And roofs. She and Cas are working on it together," he adds maliciously, and beneath the stubble, Joe visibly pales. Awesome. "You gonna open the door or what?"

* * *

The table-map is the last thing to arrive, and the expression on Cas's face tells him that his instincts weren't mistaken; he wonders what Cas's instincts told him when he was drawing it.

He wants to hang it up, get some perspective, but it's the size of a six person dining room table and heavy enough to take two people to carry and one to spot, and while the wall's concrete, he's not sure what to use to hold it up.

"Dean--" Cas starts, again.

"It's cool," Dean argues as he has it set against the wall opposite the hideous couch-thing they scavenged out of what was probably a goddamn grave or something. Even covered in a sheet, it's not like he doesn't know what horrors lurk below it. "Give the room a certain something. Horizontal," he says belatedly and gets twin dirty looks from Laura and newly-freed-from-daycare-indentured-servitude Gary as they turn it on its side.

"Oh, cool," Laura echoes when she and Gary join him to look at it in all its colorful majesty. "I didn't know Cas did art."

"I don't," Cas lies from the other side of the room; they all ignore him.

"I hate kids," Gary says, staring at the frame; it's the third time that Gary's said that in Dean's presence with no sign of it ending until he's sure everyone knows all about it. Or possibly ever: he wonders if he should talk to Glenn, find out where Gary was stationed and how long. Toddlers, he's gotta admit, can be an acquired taste.

"Where are you off to now?" he asks Laura, because Gary's answer will be 'anywhere not the daycare, please', which isn't helpful.

"Check in at Volunteer Services, then the mess to give them the final count for lunch," she answers. "Oh, we just got one of Tony's crew stopping by, she said--"

"Storm prep?"

She nods, brown ponytail bobbing. "There's gonna be a meeting in a couple of hours about prep. We need three people to go to the meeting; they're doing that for every building. Volunteer Services is handling most of it, but I said we could handle our building ourselves. And I would like to say, I grew up in Utah; I know blizzards and what to do before, during, and after."

"All yours," he says in relief; one less thing for the volunteers to deal with. "Pick two buddies, you're in charge of storm prep. Do me a favor: see if you can get to the east part of town and hit the houses Volunteer Services didn't, get bedding, mattresses, whatever. I don't want to take anything from Ichabod's supplies or that the volunteers got already if we can get it ourselves. They've got enough on their plate."

"Got it." 

At his nod, she and Gary leave, and Dean wonders vaguely considering magic candles can do anything about evil buildings when door abruptly swings open and he hears someone who sounds a lot like Alison say, "Okay, this is much nicer than I thought."

"We have guests," Vera says brightly, leaning against the doorway. "Also, coffee pot delivery from didn't ask at the front desk. Where do you want it?"

"In here is acceptable," Cas says without looking up from the laptop, and it takes everything in Dean not to walk over there and shut it and have an air-tight excuse of 'guests'. Cas is correlating data or something and that may be important, fine, but what the hell.

"I'll get it if I get a cup from the first pot," Vera offers.

"Coffee that bad in the infirmary?" Dean asks casually and gets a distracted nod in return.

"Done," Cas agrees. "Also, tell Alicia, Kamal, and Amanda their presence is requested, as well as your own."

"I don't remember it being this nice," Alison continues from the middle of the room, confirming Dean's suspicions of her motives as she looks around their (pretty kick-ass) Situation Room. They even got maps taped to the wall, very official militia-like. "You have floors. No gouges in the walls, either." She stares at the doorframe accusingly. "And paint."

"Baby," Teresa says with a sigh in her voice as she drops on the couch, which squeals like someone just stabbed it to death, "you hated this building. _Everyone_ hated this building. We built the warehouses six months early just so no one would have to come here to get food because they might just starve to death."

Sitting on Cas's left, Joe drops his pencil, looking at Dean suspiciously. "You got them in on it now?"

"Swimming pool in the basement," Dean tells Alison gloatingly and has the satisfaction of watching her mouth drop open. "Check out the bathroom over there. Does the word 'Jacuzzi' mean anything to you?"

Alison pretends she gives no fucks about the bathroom; no problem, he can wait. She glares at the (really nice) hardwood floor before focusing on the sheet-covered couch with more satisfaction and smiles when it squeals under Manuel's weight when he drops down beside Teresa. Then her eyes fix on Cas and the smile fades before she sets her shoulders and crosses the room. 

The moment Cas looks up (wow, so _Alison_ can get his attention from 'thing Dean will set on fire in the kitchen-break-room'), she says, "Cas, look--on behalf of Ichabod, I apologize for what happened in the mess."

Cas stares at her blankly. "What?"

"I didn't think about making sure we had adequate coverage for everyone coming in," she says, and Dean realizes she's been thinking about this; the words are practiced, at odds with her expression. "We know how to handle security, we had it at the party, so it's not like I don't know how this works. The mess should have had a couple of people there from the start, and I didn't think to order it. It's fixed: Naresh has people at all the public buildings and on each street just in case anything like this happens again."

Cas shuts the laptop (really?). "It wouldn't have helped, in this case. As victim--and perpetrator--of the events in question, I can tell you that for certain."

"You're wrong," Alison says, a familiar irritation breaking the rigid calm, "but it doesn't matter. They should have been there, and they weren't because I didn't think about it."

"Apology accepted," Cas says immediately. "From Ichabod and its mayor, for an oversight you couldn't possibly have anticipated during an emergency that no one could have imagined. However, Alison, if _you_ try to take responsibility for anyone's actions but your own…. I can't make you stop, but--it might finally clarify the definition of 'awkward'." He studies her. "Vera told me about the meeting with the Alliance, though the notes are still--misplaced, it seems. You don't like the way you used what happened to get help from the Alliance?"

"No, I don't," she admits, the rigidity vanishing as she drops on the chair across from Joe and Cas with a sigh, and Dean sees the long night and already long day written all over her face. "People are going to die tonight, there's no way around it. I thought and thought, and that's going to happen, I can't fix that. I can't stop the storm, I can't make more buildings safe, I can't feed everyone indefinitely, the list of 'can't' goes on forever. So we stick to what I can do; I can give people space in what we have until it runs out, and that's not yet. I can feed them until there's no food, and that's not yet, either. I didn't know how to get the Alliance to help me do those things--and then, I had a way. That doesn't mean--"

"It means," Cas says, "that it was worth it."

Alison's gaze flies to Cas. "No, it wasn't--"

"It was to me." Dean swallows at the cool honesty, knowing Cas means it. "The seed was poisoned by chance, but it doesn't follow that the tree must be, and the only stain on the fruit is in what is chosen to do with it. You used it to buy lives that would otherwise perish. Well done."

"Profound," Alison says after a long moment, cocking her head. "Nice."

"The poisoned fruit metaphor is simplistic, badly interpreted, and never used for any situation to which it might actually apply," he says, looking pleased with himself. "I've been waiting for the opportunity to see what I could do with it."

"It worked," Alison tells him, and he doesn't think he's imagining the lessened strain. "It's not even noon and I feel like it's already been a week. I've never been so excited than when Joe said Chitaqua officially requested a meeting. I'll agree to anything, and not just because of guilt, just can we stretch it to about two, two and a half hours?"

Teresa giggles, leaning against Manuel's shoulder tiredly, and Dean searches her for any trace of strain from what she did with the wards. It's true about them only needing power from her when they're tested, but even passive ones have a cost when they're raised. It's probably tiny under normal circumstances, something she barely notices any more than the energy he expends to breathe, but it's still something. 

Taking the chair at the end of the table by Cas, Dean starts to spread his legs and (kind of) regrets it; the sharp spear of pain shoots up his thigh, and Dean just avoids making a really embarrassing sound, another shot of heat coiling in his belly and its only with an effort he suppresses the video that tries to play through his mind of early morning events. Worse, Cas is _right beside him_ , oblivious to how he's fucked up Dean's life with good sex, _God_.

"So," he starts, relieved he sounds normal. "Storm prep?" Alison's too good a poker player to give anything she doesn't want to, but he thinks he knows her well enough to make some guesses, and the faint line between her eyebrows means 'trouble'. "How bad?"

She grimaces, but the hazel eyes meet his head-on. "Could be bad, terrible, or catastrophic," she answers. "Dina and Antonio have been watching and even they didn't see the build coming. It's slowed down, so ETA is midnight to six AM--they think--and it could break up before it hits, no idea."

Cas frowns. "When did the build start?"

"Hard to tell," she answers. "None of us are meteorologists, and doing this by eye is a lot harder than it looks on TV. Antonio thinks at the current rate, an hour after dusk yesterday at the earliest and hasn't slowed down since. Of all the times…." Shaking her head, she straightens. "Volunteer Center started recruiting at dawn for storm prep, checklists and fact sheets are being copied as we speak, and Tony and Walter are at the plant doing--fuck if I know, but they're reporting to me at noon with the plan on what to do about power."

"However," Teresa says, "I did get some good news from my last tour of the entrance point and the road crews; we're definitely clear to five miles, all cars off the road and moved ten feet off the sides, along with the snow. We should reach the first feeder road an hour after noon."

"Yeah, about that," Dean starts as Kamal abruptly appears at the door carrying the--really goddamn big--coffee pot, Vera just behind him with a box of what Dean assumes are all the coffee-related paraphernalia they could need. 

"Alicia and Amanda are on their way," Vera says as Kamal sets the coffee pot on the desk they brought from the old building that's currently holding the boxes of collected maps and reports and plugs it in before backing away for Cas to deal with. Something no one knew until Cas started drinking coffee in places not home: he has feelings about the amount of coffee that goes in the filter for x number of cups and is less than subtle about expressing them. And opinions on creamer. Dean didn't know you _could_ have opinions on creamer, but Cas has them.

Giving the box to Cas, Vera leans back against the table by Joe to look at the two rows of maps pinned to the east wall, acquired from the people coming in. Amanda had sorted all they'd found into groups, and as of this morning, there are twenty unique variations hanging on the wall, each one representing a slightly different version of Amanda's original map.

Even with the sheer shittiness of the Xerox quality--which makes sense, these are copies of copies--it's not hard to see the differences when set side by side, and especially compared to Amanda's original. The thick black line on each version traces a different route to Ichabod, and not just from different start points in the state; some of the same start points have two different routes entirely, and three had the same start point but diverged a quarter of the distance to match that of one of the other maps. 

The start points are weird on their own; some are close to several clusters of existing communities, some in areas that patrol confirmed are nothing but farmland or dead towns, some from a single small town. To compound the not random but what the hell, everything technically to the east of Ichabod (like someone drew a line north-to-south through Kansas with Ichabod at the center) ends up forced to drive almost to the western border to one of those empty-area start points and go from there.

Using Amanda's (color) version makes something else very clear; not one of the routes, even by accident, is the most direct path, and some are so insanely convoluted people drive literal circles on a random assortment of good to shitty as fuck roads without any particular reason. It also makes another thing clear; whatever the reason, whoever did this was committed to making sure people followed their version of the map, enough that entire stretches of roads are erased entirely. 

In the margins of their representative sample is Cas's handwritten Greek letters (of course) that mean things like 'erased all of the western roads mid-green and darker' and 'erased all the roads but lime which is dirt roads' and 'I think these are cow trails or something'. 

"Cas," Dean says as soon as percolation has commenced. "Go ahead and start."

"I sent Alicia out this morning to find at what point the landscape accommodates maximum visibility of the countryside," Cas starts. "Her job was to find that point, mark it, and continue for ten miles beyond it to see if there was any sign of clear roads."

There's a knock on the door before Alicia comes in with Amanda. It seems impossible by any normal standard, but she actually looks perkier than she did earlier. Unlike Amanda's severe braid, Alicia's ponytail looks like it's gone through a small war, and each step looks like she's barely stopping herself from bouncing; despite seeing her carry two visible weapons (and God knows how many knives) when she sheds her coat, tugging her gloves off with her teeth as she approaches the table, big blue eyes clear as a kid's, it's an effort to see a soldier.

Then again, that's probably why even knowing something is eventually going to be happening involving nets and roofs, he's still going to be surprised when she lands beside someone and covers them with a net. Hopefully beside them. Hopefully only _covering_ them with a net. Christ, the possibilities really are endless.

"Alicia," Cas says, "please report what you told me."

"Me and my team went out to find where the hills stopped," she says, taking the chair between Dean and Alison while Amanda chooses the one facing Dean at the other end of the table with Kamal perched at the corner. Scanning the table, Alicia tugs one of the updated maps with Ichabod's incoming roads closer . "Best view; starts at five and a half miles, half a mile from the first feeder coming in," she says, pointing just short of the first road to intersect with the road coming into Ichabod. "I split us up; each of us took five miles down each of the four feeder roads from the point where it branches from what we shall call IH-Ichabod."

"We are?" Cas asks, and before Dean can deny it, leans out of his chair and _writes it on the map_. "So decided. Continue."

"Thank you," Alicia says smugly. "Distances are as follows: Road A six miles from Ichabod; Road B, roughly seven and a half; Road C, ten and a half, and Road D, fourteen. At five miles out on each one, we surveyed all within our line of sight, visibility in our current pre-snow mood light and variations in landscape roughly twelve miles; rough count, there are fourteen roads feeding directly into A, B, C, or D, and that includes those composed of nothing but dirt according to my map. On all views, all roads are filled to capacity. So we can assume greater than twenty miles worth of traffic jam out there from all directions but east. Since we're east in this scenario and all."

"Son of a bitch," Alison whispers. "And the people…."

"All walking, all the time," Alicia confirms. "Some have makeshifts sleds--color me impressed--snowshoes, a few intrepid souls on skis, but lots and lots of walking through the snow."

"What," Alison asks, "the _fuck_ is going on out there?"

"I have an idea regarding what to do about those coming in," Cas says, looking at Dean uncertainly, who nods encouragement because this actually is a good idea. Reaching for another map, he pushes the others to the side and sets it in the middle of the table. "I think this might, with some alterations, help."

Alison leans forward as Manuel snags a notebook from those colonizing the table and gets a pencil. "Let's hear it."

* * *

Hearing it again--and after Cas and Teresa sketch out a rough draft with a few alterations--Dean starts to see a lot more possibilities in how this will work.

"So from this point," Teresa says, pointing at spot about a quarter mile from Ichabod's patrol line and the bottom of the steep incline leading into Ichabod, "we set Ground Zero, and clear every vehicle from the roads between there and Point D, the most distant feeder road, a little less than fourteen miles." Cas nods, checking his draft. "Block points A, B, C, and D to traffic when they merge into IH-Ichabod--I like that name, we're definitely keeping it--and make them pick-up points."

"Point D is eight miles from Point A," Manuel says, frowning. "How about relaying everyone from B, C, and D to A and pick them up there to bring them to Zero? That way, we get more vehicles on the road for relay between Zero and A."

"I agree," Cas says, making a correction. "Chitaqua's patrol was trained to deal with civilians in a protective capacity, not combative. I don't promise our social skills are the best, but--let's say we're more used to dealing with angry people who believe we are just being lazy in not immediately slaying their monster on arrival than you are. Also, if there is anything chasing them, we can act as first defenders and send word back to Ichabod to give you time to prepare." He gets one of his ruthlessly honest looks. "I've been told we're also somewhat intimidating, so that might help."

"One good reason, one slightly depressing one, and an absolute universal truth," Alison agrees, wrinkling her nose and looking over Teresa's shoulder. "You don't have enough teams here to hold all the roads. I mean, you gotta sleep."

"All of us can work with each other, not just the official teams; that's how we were trained," Amanda says, looking at Cas and then away. "Including the recruits. They're far enough along to know how to work together, and this will give 'em good practice in how to deal with people in large numbers early."

"That gives us ten teams," Dean says, doing the division on the twenty recruits.

"Nine," Amanda says briefly. "At least, until we get our non-regular patrol members organized, so set the potential number at eleven."

"Kyle's competent," Cas says out of nowhere, and Dean forgets his protest at the way Amanda's head snaps up. "During the crisis, perhaps he should be given a temporary team--"

"No," Amanda says in the exact same voice Cas uses raining down judgment for sins great and small, including wet towels on the bathroom floor and the inexcusable lack of internet in their lives. Cas blinks at her, startled. "Look, he's--do we really want someone who decided that an hour before going on duty was a good time to get high, drunk, and stupid because Alicia remembered what common sense is and threw him out on his ass?"

Alicia sets an elbow on the table and frowns, bracing her chin on one hand. "Ouch, but fair." She meets Amanda's eyes for a long (really significant) moment before turning her attention to Cas. "She's right and I do not say this as his maybe stalkee. All sins can be forgiven--and I do mean all--but unreliability is a cardinal one when it comes to your team, and if we can't trust him to do his job, he can't be trusted to lead others doing theirs."

"Sean is still performing his regular duties," Cas argues, and Dean has the feeling he's missing something. "Under the circumstances--"

"Sean is also concurrently experiencing his rightful bout of serious humiliation for being, as we say, a dick," Alicia interrupts, wrinkling her nose. "It's not a matter of degree in sins committed, but trust in your leader. Kyle fucked over his own _team_ when he pulled that shit on New Year's Eve. No one's going to trust him to lead them to the bathroom right now."

"That's it?" Dean asks quietly, and has three sets of unreadable eyes fixed on him. "Anything else I should know?"

"He's also sulking," Alicia says without so much as pausing for a breath. "And doing it loudly. Dean, it's not easy to get _everyone_ pissed at you, but Natalie practically gave him the cut direct--"

"The what?"

"Ignored him super publicly," Alicia explains. "Anyway--"

"How about this," Kamal says, leaning forward. "I'll give you Ana and take Kyle myself while this is going on."

"You're running short with Leah gone," Dean says with a frown, annoyed that he forgot about that.

"It's fine," Kamal says soothingly. "We've been working directly with Ichabod's teams since we train with them while we're here and we all know each other. Anyway, Kyle's assigned to Ichabod now anyway, and Ana's been my second pretty much since we were assigned here. Good choice for a future team leader, by the way; she knows the countryside for miles, the locals, and Ichabod's patrol teams. If you want, I'll take Gary off your hands, too, until Leah gets back at least."

Alicia sits back, looking impressed. "I like it. Even more with that Gary part: you know he hates kids? Ask him about it."

"Don't," Dean tells him, shaking his head at Kamal's confused expression. "Really."

"It's an excellent idea," Cas says approvingly. "Amanda?"

"What?" She straightens, looking startled, like maybe she forgot Ichabod is her command. "Yeah, that's fine," she answers, eyeing Kamal suspiciously. "What do we owe you and don't pretend it's not something."

"I'll think about it," Kamal offers, then belatedly glances at Dean. "Uh, you okay with--"

"Cas does personnel, Amanda answers for Ichabod," Dean says sourly. "I just, you know--whatever I do. What _do_ I do? Anyone know?"

Ignoring him (not a surprise), Cas nods, making some notes. "Vera, get the list from Amanda of all our recruits and you both create a rough draft of shift schedule for everyone after the meeting is over. I'll provide you with a list of those who aren't patrol who are compatible and can work together."

"We get shift control for the road outposts?" Vera asks in elaborate shock. "Careful, Cas, the power may go to our heads."

"Hey," Dean says hopefully. "I have an idea--"

"I didn't coup Chitaqua," Vera says clearly, eyes narrowing. "And even if I ever wanted to, I sure as hell don't want to do it now. All yours."

Yeah, that's what he thought; leadership whatever, this is bullshit.

"Even so, that's a lot to handle…." Alison frowns. "What about civilian teams from Ichabod--not regular patrol, though I'll make sure they do regularly monthly rotations--and put one with each Chitaqua team, give them some help? And instruction in remedial social skills?"

"I like it, but your call," he says firmly. "Your town, we're just helping out."

"We'll need to clear the remainder of the road as quickly as possible," Cas says as Alison nods at Manuel to add that to their notes. "Chitaqua can't set up the checkpoints until that's done, and once those are established, we'll stop all foot traffic to give you time to retrieve all the people remaining on IH-Ichabod and send the first four vehicles to retrieve people; if we do it quickly enough, there will be very little time for the crowd to become difficult to control. Once they see what we're doing, hopefully they'll understand this is to their benefit and we can implement the entire relay plan."

"Point A to Ground Zero," Teresa agrees, then sighs. "That goddamn hill isn't gonna be fun for anyone on foot."

"Gas," Manuel says succinctly. "I did the math; it takes way too much gas that we could be using to bring more people in. They gotta walk it or we're going to run out fast."

"I know." Teresa frowns for a moment. "One problem averted at least; we never got around to cutting down all that brush around the road--hiding, you know, didn't want anyone to pay attention--so it's gonna take some effort for anyone to wander off the road even in a blizzard without getting stuck in the shrubbery."

"We'll have the walky-talkies," Manuel says, grinning at them. "Walter can start powering up our surplus; God bless lithium-ion batteries. This is Snow Rescue 102: I'll remind everyone to grab their fact sheets to review, but it's not like last winter wasn't saving people from that totally unexpected snow that had been falling for a month."

"You have fact sheets?" Dean asks, wondering why Alicia looks so interested.

"Of course we do," Alison says with a faint grin as she looks over Teresa's shoulder at Manuel's notes. "What about using the horses with those sleds?"

Teresa and Manuel exchange a look, but not mocking, which means these are people who do ride around on horse-drawn sleds in a winter wonderland. "We don't use them much in winter other than the basics for emergencies and ride them between the fields to save gas, give them some exercise," Teresa says. "The last storm hit so fast we haven't had time to do anything but make sure the stables and the barn are warm and our resident equestrians exercised them. First time in harness for months, at night, during a blizzard: oh God no. I can't see how that could go right."

Dean doesn't pretend to know horses. "What's worst case scenario?"

"They bolt and run into everyone on their way to no idea where they're going," she answers grimly. "Difference between a horse-drawn anything accident and a car accident? Horses are like attaching a smart car to another car to pull it, and the car fights you when you try to help while destroying other cars--trust me, it's like a nightmare and all my childhood screaming and crying at me at the same time." She frowns, eyes distant. "But a person on a horse could be a guide or carry double or triple, maybe; we have several trackers with perfect direction sense, so assuming they can ride and control their horse, the blizzard could drop visibility to zero and still they'd get everyone home fine. Even if the horses don't work out, they can do it. We tell them to hit the patrol line at Third Street, they will literally show up _right there_ , no drifting toward Sixth."

"I need Claudia, Tony, Walter--no, they're at the plant, so Denny and Njoya--Rohan, Neer, Sreenivasa, Dina, and Tyrone," Alison recites and looks at Teresa, who thinks before nodding agreement. Getting to her feet, Alison sighs. "Might as well call Lanak in as well, she knows the inventory and supply lists and where everything on them is. Sooner we start, the sooner we maybe can get this working."

"Any chance you could talk to them really really fast or have someone else do it?" Alicia asks, looking at a startled Alison hopefully "Yeah, it's been two and a half hours--my bad, I misjudged, but just got this assignment this morning, slowed me down a little. Also, Teresa, if you could stick around, that'd be a big help."

"For what?" Dean asks.

"My report on the incident in the mess," she explains like it should be obvious. "And--depending on the next hour or so if we're not interrupted--part of what's going on with all the people coming here."

"Thirty minutes," Alison says without hesitation. "Manuel, let me brief you on the way to Admin."

"Do I need to ask permission to go do something?" Alicia asks Dean in the electrified silence. "With Amanda, I mean. I really need everyone here before I start anyway, and we need to double check something, if that's okay?"

"Yeah," he says belatedly when he notices both of them are waiting. After they leave, he turns to look at Vera--sketching absently on a piece of paper like maybe she's avoiding looking at him--and Joe--really into whatever the fuck he's doing--while Kamal (not having paper or a pencil of his own) searches the table intently and randomly moves papers like it's the most important thing in the world. "Leader. In case anyone knows what that is. Anyone?"

Cas, caught in the act of starting to reach for the lid of the laptop, gives him a curious look.

"Nothing," he sighs, getting up and grabbing Cas's empty cup as he stalks to the coffee pot, which just isn't far enough away for anyone to notice he's stalking. "Anyone want coffee?"

"Yeah," Vera says, reaching for her mug, and Joe silently holds up his cup while Kamal looks hopeful. "Two cream and one sugar, thanks"

* * *

When everyone returns (in thirty-five minutes, not that he is the kind to notice punctuality or anything), Dean takes in everyone's expression: Cas, intrigued, Kamal and Joe curious, Alison and Teresa worried, but Vera--knows perfectly goddamn well what's going on. 

Amanda returns to the table while Alicia pauses to lock the door before turning to face them. "I finished my report of yesterday's events, but I feel text will not fully convey--well, anything, and fine, I didn't finish writing it up, okay? I have my notes on my alpha drive, though."

Taking her seat, she settles herself to look at them all, and he doesn't think he's imagining the way her mouth twitches, or the way Joe's twitches in return.

"Things we do not admit but know as true," she starts, demurely folding her hands on the table like a kid at church. "You send Joe when you want to negotiate, you send Vera when you want to steal, you send Sarah when you want to lie, you send Mel when you want to control a situation, you send Amanda when you want something very dead, and you send me when you're not sure or you don't know what's going on, so I find out."

"We do?" Dean asks.

"We do," she says firmly. "Oh, we recently added, 'you send James if you need something because he can get it', forgot that part, sorry. As I was saying, you send me to find out. For, believe it or not, I am almost always right and that 'almost' is just modesty talking. I called myself Judgement Day sometimes, but then I became a team leader and Team of Justice just--I need something better is what I'm saying." 

Dean blinks at her. "Seriously?"

"Has to be experienced," Joe says smugly. "More than one way she helped me out when Erica's team was my border escort."

"My instructions before Amanda sent me to talk to Dean yesterday was to afterward report to the mess and find out what happened before our fearless leader set it on fire or something, then help out Naresh. We'll start there: there was nothing and I do mean nothing right about what happened, and I speak not in morals, ethics, or a just universe, but in the worst of all possible worlds it could not have happened like that. I don't mean your report was outright lies, Cas," she adds, giving him a bewildered look. "Not a single untruthful word, me and Amanda got five people to verify this, and yet…."

"Tell me about it," Dean mutters, ignoring Cas's sharp look.

"Including kitchen staff, there were one hundred and thirty people in the mess when this went down, eleven in the kitchen," Alicia says. "The incident in question began fifteen minutes after Cas arrived and for convenience, ended when he left. When Naresh got to the mess five minutes later, Haruhi had already secured the kitchen and had the very bewildered mess under control."

Dean starts to argue but Cas just nods, expression carefully neutral. "So I was the cause."

"You'd think that," she agrees, cocking her head with a startlingly penetrative look at Cas. "And you'd be wrong, so many kinds I can't even count the number. You were catalyst, not cause, but the problem is, I don't have cause--see what I mean how this couldn't have happened like this? No? You will, and now we are gonna get so interesting you will cry from lack of boredom in your life: I interviewed our five crazy-murder-death people again early this morning in the infirmary." She makes a face. "Not morning people, gonna say. Very cranky and not a little hostile."

Dean cocks his head: leader has to mean _something_ here, right? "Who gave you authorization again? It wasn't me."

"I am Judgement Day and--Amanda, fine," she says, scowling at him. "I checked with her last night, and she said she'd ask forgiveness rather than go within ten feet of your door, come on, Dean. We really, really, really wanted you to relax yesterday; if it was Lucifer himself, he'd have to wait, we could not let you leave that room without at least two orgasms, hopefully three, and Cas…." She trails off, looking at him sympathetically. "Seriously, you had such a shitty day. Glad Dean made you feel better. You look better, much more relaxed, am I right?"

Alison starts to giggle while Teresa and Kamal fight for crappy neutral expressions, but far more tellingly, Joe and Vera both nod like yeah, that's totally reasonable. Worse, he can't think of any grounds for disagreement.

"Excellent judgment on Amanda's part," Cas agrees so Dean doesn't have to admit it. "I do feel better, thank you. What did you find out?"

"The Murder Quintuplets were very interesting. Depending on personality: utterly horrified but definitely justified in their actions yet also bewildered; aggressively sure it was perfectly justified--reasons not entirely clear to them, but they were committed due to having already committed the doing--as well as bewildered; not sure it was perfectly justified but sticking to it with lots and lots of bewildered sprinkles; repeat one; and finally our lone gunman, who I left for last, and glad I did cause didn't like him. He was super pissed you broke his wrist, a little remorseful for the entire pulling a gun and shooting at you thing but believed you should have been nicer when he attacked you without provocation and this would have all been avoided--can't make this up, it was surreal--and also--say it with me--"

"Bewildered," Cas says, sitting back with a strange expression.

"Judgment Day says, they might have been lying, but no, they weren't. I woke them up before dawn still riding the painkillers to Happyville, and this was just a brief, somewhat miserable stop and they wanted back on so much," Alicia says. "The only certainty in the infected zone is death and lack of tan lines for we have no sun like ever, so everything from here on out could be wrong, but not gonna lie, I'm right. Catalyst, not cause, and before you try again, Cas, I'm going to tell you why: Haruhi." She folds her hands neatly in front of her. "Haruhi was in the mess. Specifically, she wasn't in the kitchen during the event in question, only the very first part. After coming out of the kitchen and locking the door, she was subject to a very dramatic freezing in place that she very reluctantly and with great embarrassment described as 'panic'."

Cas's expression closes so fast Dean feels the wind of its passage. "She was upset by what she saw, I assume."

Dean watches Alicia's face carefully, but she uses it like a weapon of mass confusion. "Naresh questioned her last night, but this morning, I questioned her again with the other five. Short version, I had her moved to one of the isolation rooms on the third floor of the infirmary under guard, along with our five crazy people, under suspicion for attempted murder--"

"What?" Cas interrupts, stiffening. "Why? She had nothing to do with it!"

"Getting there," Alicia says, no humor in her voice now. "Haruhi doesn't know this yet, but it's for her--for all of them, though let's be honest, she's the only one we know well enough to care about and I give no fucks for the guy who shot at my leader. Much like our murder men, when I questioned Haruhi again this morning, she was utterly bewildered but here's the kicker--"

"She thought it was justified," Dean says and earns an approving nod from Alicia. "When you say 'justified' you mean, she didn't think it was weird, that she froze?"

"That would be it," Alicia says. "Haruhi heard shots fired, put the kitchen in lockdown--she knows procedure when people with guns go crazy in large groups--and ran out _into the mess_ to deal with the disturbance, and only then freezes--"

"When she saw--" Cas starts.

"If you say 'saw you getting super cranky' one more time, I'm gonna punch you," Alicia interrupts sincerely. "Cas, I get you want this to be you so much, but no, you are not, in fact, capable of turning normal--normalish but very much dicks--people into murder-death-kill machines just by your presence, and also make someone who tackled a werewolf--Naresh told me about it last night, have you heard that story?--suddenly freeze while performing her duties against _civilians_." She cocks her head, blue eyes dancing. "Or someone, according to the interview, who was just having a really adorable chat about coffee and boyfriends over the buffet table with you."

Dean looks at Cas, who stares at the table with a faint frown. Adorable?

"Catalyst," Alicia states, "but not cause. Also, Alison, if you're wondering why I'm kidnapping your residents, Naresh left orders with Rohan to follow my recommendation without asking why; like I said, he felt something was wrong, too, and told me I could do what I wanted before Suma caught him still awake. We're tight."

"Why didn't Naresh tell me?" Alison asks mildly.

"Same reason Dean was kept distracted and Rohan wasn't given any more instruction than 'what she said'," Alicia answers. "This was very need to know for reasons that will be clear pretty soon now: Amanda knows all of it, Naresh will get the rest when Suma lets him out of bed, and Vera and Dolores found out this morning when we put them back in full isolation. What you do with this information is up to you, but my recommendation is that it doesn't leave this room, excluding those Vera and Dolores judge need to know for mysterious medical reasons."

Dean licks his lips. "This isn't about Croat."

"A coercive," Teresa says slowly, sitting back in her chair. "You think they were under the influence of a coercive?"

"Compulsion, obsession, _idee fixe_ , geas, intrusive thoughts, binding, more words for things that make you think, feel, or do things without your consent inflicted by an unknown third party either by accident or on purpose," Alicia confirms. "Kidding: definitely on purpose."

"But Haruhi didn't attack Cas," Dean argues.

"They call it fight or flight, but it's really fight, flight, or freeze," she answers. "Basically, adrenaline hitting the brain like the fist of a really cranky God and it's all who knows, especially if you aren't expecting it and don't know what to do with it. Look," she says, peering earnestly around the table, "even leaving Haruhi out of the equation, probability itself hates this scenario. Out of one hundred and nineteen people in that room, five people, all civilians--sure, three were carrying, but this is the infected zone and also America, or so they tell us--four with families and exhausted from a hell of a walk, two of them related and therefore the only ones from the same part of the state, all see Cas and have not just the five percent reaction, which I could almost buy, but all five also take the brand new and never before seen homicide approach? Cas, describe what happened with our first candidate for a Darwin award's again in your own words; I'll wait."

"He knocked into me at the buffet table, became--upset, and then tried to punch me," Cas says evenly, but the wooden set of his shoulders has Dean fighting the urge to reach under the table and touch him, be reassuring, _something_. "I stopped him, turned away, and he drew his gun and attempted to shoot me. Then the others…." He trails off, looking startled. "They were on the other side of the room."

"Boom," Alicia states, grinning at everyone's mystified expressions. "For those who have no idea what we're talking about--I like people like that--crappy reactions to Cas tend to require proximity and focused attention or something, but it's not something he wafts around a room."

"Wafts," Dean echoes.

"Wafts," she says firmly. "Anyway, Cas is an expert at avoiding notice even in a crowd; Darwin's Proof had to knock into him to notice him, and our other four weren’t physically close enough and from their own words had no idea what was going on at the buffet table--until they heard that shot. My theory: the gunshot focused them on Cas, who got their attention, they freaked above and beyond what anyone's ever has before, and boom, we got our runners up for the Darwin award. And the fact that first guy even took a shot in the first place…." She shakes her head.

"I have to admit," Amanda says reluctantly, "I wouldn't have called 'tried to shoot Cas' as first reaction for anyone, ever."

"I've been on sixteen missions with Cas, both with and without a team, and never, not even with those army guys, did anyone go after him on spec," Alicia says. "So to reiterate: not just worst possible reaction, but worst reaction any of us have ever seen from five separate people, four of them only seconds after the first one, and while I can't speak for anyone else at this table, I'd like to see you stop me when I say this doesn't happen. Unless I’m wrong, which I'm not. Throw Haruhi freezing into the mix--like I said, this combination couldn't have happened in the worst of all worlds, not without something else to help it along."

"But no proof," Dean points out.

"A coercive is forced behavior," Teresa says, an edge of frustration in her voice. "Behavior _is_ the proof. If someone knew they were being coerced--or it was obvious to others--it wouldn't be nearly as effective. Only way to even know it exists is observation when they're triggered and hope whoever set it prioritized doing the thing over subtlety, or the discipline for non-compliance is unusual or noticeable." 

Dean just stops himself from rubbing the palm of his hand against his knee. "So how do you get rid of it?"

"Other than let them do what it wants them to--assuming it has an end point in the design--we have to identify it first," she says, and Dean notices Alison is carefully staring at the table. "That's an adventure in itself. There are hundreds of types of coercives, and the variations on those are endless."

"Which is why Haruhi's being treated as a prisoner, just like the other five," Alicia explains. "We're adopting the 'why take the risk' principle; all we know for sure is it exists and maybe the event that triggered it, but not that it's the only event that matches the trigger conditions, or even if there's more than one trigger. So assume anything could trigger it, and that includes any of our six potential victims being told they're being coerced. Not to mention if there's a discipline for non-compliance or what that is, because fun for evil people involves being super creepy, I guess."

Dean debates only for a second, but he's gotta be sure. "You don't think it was aimed at Cas?"

"No," Alicia says positively. "That would have been a lot easier to figure out if it was, trust me, but no. Too many moving parts: they arrived at different times, are from different parts of the state, and one was here at the party and only in the mess because he's having a torrid affair with one of the kitchen staff who brought him with him, no names but apparently they're living in a romantic disaster novel, very dramatic with lots of sex, I want their pre-mess lives. Anyone who wanted Cas dead enough to go to the trouble of setting up a coercion to get it done wouldn't have done it using five civilians. An army, maybe, but those five? Didn't even give Cas a workout. That fight took forty-five seconds to a minute start to finish and that includes the time Cas used to display how one makes a gun into a stress ball for the edification of all."

"Forty-five seconds?" Cas echoes, startled. "It was longer than that."

"Oven timer in the kitchen says differently," Alicia says, but Dean notices she's watching Cas carefully and thinks he's starting to get what Joe was saying about having to experience it. "Bread had two minutes left--Dara swears this is so and bread is not something you mess with--shot was fired when Dara put on her second oven glove five to ten seconds later, Haruhi ordered the kitchen into lockdown and left, locking the door behind her, terrifying silence, timer went off and scared the fuck out of the kitchen staff immediately before they heard Haruhi shout for everyone to remain calm, which is right after you left the mess. A minute, maybe, Haruhi said it took her a few seconds to calm down, but she's a trooper. Time flies when you're teaching people the error of their ways, am I right?"

"No," Cas says flatly. "It was longer. I know, Alicia, and in this, I can't be wrong. I may not consciously notice the passage of time, but I don't lose it entirely. From the time the shot was fired until I left the mess it was…." He stops short, and Dean sees his face go blank.

Alicia cocks her head. "Cas?"

"I'm not sure," he prevaricates, expression settled into defensive stubbornness not to be trifled with or else. "However, the point stands. It was--"

"Longer, yeah, and I believe you because it's you, but also because that explains something. For despite the oven timer and being able to nail this entire event at under two minutes, every witness in the mess itself without exception thought it was longer, too."

"How much longer?" Dean asks when Cas doesn't. "Minutes, hours.…"

"Keeping in mind all these people just came from terror in the mess to terror in isolation due to suspected Croat and therefore not rational--and can't blame them--they were startlingly consistent in describing it in versions that can be summarized as 'felt like forever'." Alicia sets her chin on her hand, watching Cas. "Their reaction to being told the actual timeline was much like Cas's, as in, no, we were so very wrong let us tell you how much and at length, which from my side did indeed feel like forever. Naresh noted that very interesting tidbit in the spirit of the one single part of this where consensus was reached on the event in question and therefore super weird, since that doesn't happen with three people describing the same thing much less one hundred and nineteen. And in case this wasn't obvious; only the people in the mess itself, including Haruhi, seemed curiously unable to tell even semi-accurate time."

Cas nods shortly, and Dean decides maybe this subject should be explored later. "So the five and Haruhi are in isolation now?"

"Which is why I called Vera and Dolores in this morning." She looks at Vera attentively. "You're up, for I know not the ways of the medical people; enlighten us with your wisdom."

Vera sighs, rolling her eyes. "We're using standard procedure for suspected Croat, but with additional restrictions: no physical contact, no direct communication including vocal, and minimal interaction and I do mean minimal. They're all under observation twenty-four seven, and their observers are required to record any and all behavior even if it's just staring at the wall." She looks at Teresa. "Dolores said you instructed her in procedure, though she said it was usually for non-demonic possession and dreamwalkers."

"It's standard on the border," Teresa answers, nodding. "Who did the warding for each room and the observation rooms?"

"Dolores used the one you taught her," Vera says. "But she--and I--would like you to check it for us, see if we missed anything that might be more specific to this."

Dean looks between them. "Okay, I give up; why are you and Dolores handling it?"

"Because this is also a medical case," Vera answers. "We set up isolation and have all of them hooked up to monitors to watch heartrate and blood pressure, and fuck I would give something for an EEG to watch brain activity, but for now, observers are going to be my diagnostic machines. According to what I know about coercives--which is pretty much entirely what Cas taught us in training--if it's a compulsion, with zero contact and no way to carry it out, the discipline for non-compliance will usually kick in within twenty-four hours or less."

"If they're triggered but can't comply or whatever…then what?"

"Self-mutilation is more common," Teresa answers, and Dean just stops himself from flinching, hand clenching into a fist against his knee to stop the urge to rub. "Creative, but generally not harming themselves in a way that could limit their ability to comply. That much, we can deal with medically." She nods to Alicia. "I'd like to see your notes, Alicia."

"I made a copy on my epsilon drive for you," she confirms, patting the pocket of her flannel. 

"You all were busy this morning," Dean observes and bites his tongue; thankfully, no one comments, but he judges them for what it's clear they're thinking. "Okay, so--anything else?"

"The people coming here," Alicia answers politely, like she's trying not to say out loud that she's wondering if Dean's suffering from some specific very recent dementia. Before his eyes, her messy ponytail loses another strand of hair to curl against her cheek, and wrinkling her nose, she blinks at it cross-eyed before shoving it back behind her ear. 

A soldier. Who finds out things.

In sheer incredulity, his gaze drops to her hands and sees the network of scars peeking out from the cuff of the too-big flannel and remembers how she casually she flipped that knife. More than one reason Alicia helped Joe at the border: he wonders if they're all at a place where he can ask exactly how Alicia got around Erica and the rest of her team to get Joe the time he needed unobserved with the border personnel to get that unauthorized information. Alicia was also, he remembers, Cas's way-too-early-in-the morning coffee-and-camp-gossip buddy.

You send Joe to negotiate, but Alicia is the one you send to find out.

"Blackmail," he says, testing the idea, and Alicia focuses on him with wide, innocent eyes. "You're the one who figured out who to blackmail at the border and with what?"

"The first rule of fight club," Alicia answers solemnly, "is one does not talk about fight club. You'd think people would realize that's a really useful life lesson when taken as a metaphor, and yet."

Dean looks at Joe (smug) then back at Alicia, who smiles winningly. "How--"

"The border's pretty whatever," Joe says. "Let's just say it; the law is what you can get away with, not like anyone in the infected zone has any way to complain on the off-chance someone cared. So when it's something one of _them_ wants to hide, it shows. At least, Alicia can tell."

"I was bored, Erica was all 'we must be on guard at all times' and staring at people only goes so far for a week straight, so I made my own fun: pattern recognition from observed behavior combined with whatever Joe could get off their own computers for me to read," she says proudly. "Turns out I'm okay at that kind of thing, who knew? Also useful for successful ambush strategy," Joe winces, good, "and tactical exercises. And filtering gossip for Cas over coffee and Chitaqua toast, of course."

Soon, he's gonna sit down his soldiers and find out everything they've been hiding the last two years, especially the stuff they forgot they don't need to hide anymore. "Okay, let's hear what you got."

"This was purely accidental," she starts, flashing him a grin. "Who knows where an investigation will take you? Well, it does get you a lot of witness reports, and witnesses, as we all know, have a flexible interpretation of staying on topic. I was taking notes anyway, so figured might as well see what I could figure out about the Great Kansas Migration of '14 and '15." Belatedly, Dean realizes from the direction of her gaze that she's looking at the maps on the wall. "This is a plan."

"That much we guessed," Alison says with barely controlled impatience. "What kind of plan is what I'm wondering about."

"Patience, grasshopper, and you shall know all," Alicia answers grandly. "The problem here is, I for one expect something as dramatic as this to be working as intended, and so we wonder what the end game is when step one is 'overrunning a town with people', am I right?" She nods and carries the table with her on sheer charisma. "Right. It's so incredibly weird, it wouldn't occur to us that step one actually _is_ the end game."

Alison's eyebrows draw together in sharp disbelief. "The plan was to overrun Ichabod with people?"

"Goal, actually. See, this was either a very bad plan that had some accidental working parts or an almost decent plan that went terribly wrong, but it was not and never was a good plan," Alicia explains. "Which can indeed be summarized as 'Goal: get everyone to Ichabod'. And gotta give them credit, it worked. Sort of."

" _What_?"

"You're probably wondering why," Alicia continues blithely. "I was wondering, too, and then it occurred to me; we are way too cynical as people and that, my friends, is sad. We should trust our fellow man, is what I'm saying, and instead of judging, we just listen. To their explanations of 'motive to cross the state of Kansas to walk in the snow to Ichabod'. Sure, so much lying and weirdness but there's got to be a truth in there somewhere, am I right? So we picked the ones that sound--well, sane. The military coming back, for example." Alicia looks around the table. "Big mistake. Huge. Let's not do that."

This time, Dean's the one who asks, "What?"

"We are going to be the most credulous people in the world and assume all of them are speaking God's own truth--don't say it, Cas, I can't do relative truth today, it's not gonna work." Cas frowns but manages to restrain his need to tell them all about relative truth because he does shit like that for fun. "I mean from giant spiders to the Democratic party taking everyone's guns--seriously, has no one read the reports? They're awesome--all true, they really genuinely worried about this very unlikely and sometimes flat-out impossible thing--at least, I hope impossible, no one correct me about the spiders thing. What do these people have in common in every story no matter how crazy?"

"They're…." Alison stares at Alicia's expectant expression like a deer trapped in the most cheerful headlights ever. "They're coming here?"

"Boom," Alicia says. "Have I blown your mind with this very obvious fact? Deep breath now, going for two in a row; now we're going to take all the stories and assume they are all lying, hallucinating, whatever--all of the stories, especially the cockroach army, which thank God because that shit happens all you'll see of me is my piss-stained ass running in any direction not them--all lies, wrong, mistaken, cannot be true. We'll call all those things 'x', still a huge field but possibly less desire to evacuate my bowels while screaming, and we insert x into all the stories as 'object', and now they have one other thing in common. Wait for it…"

"They are running _away from_ x," Vera says wryly. "And to Ichabod."

"Logic is our bff. From the sheer desperation, I'd say guilt was a factor here in whoever came up with this plan in the first place; ie something they did, did not do, or knew about was going to cause a lot of death and they wanted to prevent it. The deaths, I mean. Solution: send everyone somewhere safe." She searches everyone's faces. "That's consistent, too, from everyone who's arrived so far once we got past the 'totally the party' thing. They came here to get their families and friends somewhere safe. X exists."

"Just because they believe that--" Dean starts.

"We have upwards of twenty thousand reasons to believe it," Alicia answers. "And no reason whatsoever to think otherwise. They may be lying or wrong about the exact 'thing that will kill them' but not about there being something. This wasn't just to get them here, but--"

"Keep them here," Dean says, straightening and remembering just in time the two-inch rule regarding knees; this is so not the time. "It was a trap, but the _other_ kind."

"And not something trying to gather everyone up to kill them?" Alison asks skeptically. "Why not?"

"Parking," he says, and Alicia nods. "Only a human would set out a strategic master plan for getting people across the state away from home with logistics that include a plus thirty-mile traffic jam that was at least partially deliberate, including--on a guess--the parking lot disasters, which were definitely deliberate."

"The plan included saving all the people; kind of pointless if all those already conveniently in our safe place of Ichabod start leaving after the party. Step some number but we'll say three because I like three: we need the people who are already here to stay here and not be suspicious making that happen until it's too late. Answer: Parking Lot Hell with our first group of panicked arrivals, am I right?"

"You got it," he says distractedly. "I saw it that night, but with everything else--yeah, that explains it."

"Not a good plan, no, but fantastic example of working with what you've got," Alicia says admiringly. "Except for the part where it didn't have to be terrible, or more accurately, less terrible because again, not a good plan. They put effort into this: twenty versions of the map with the routes neatly outlined and then copied by the thousands. That took time, time they could have used to concurrently realize implementing this already bad plan in less than three days would do nothing to improve it." Crossing her arms, Alicia eyes the maps again. "I'm going to guess they didn't get the significance of color here. Not like they had a lot of time to look at it, just copy it--Alison, Admin have a color Xerox machine or just black and white? I'm going to say it doesn't."

Alison opens and closes her mouth. "No, why? Wait, it was done _here_?"

"Our person of interest stole _Amanda's_ map," Alicia explains, smiling at Amanda brightly. "Me, if I was stupid enough to do that, I'd want it out of my hot little hands as fast as possible so as not to die. Anyway, they knew the Xerox machine worked here--you use it to make copies of fact sheets, after all--and it was right down the street, so why go anywhere else? Sprint their ass to Admin, Xerox the shit out of the original--high contrast likely or they would have been unreadable when we got to the copy of a copy of a copy stage--sprint the map back to Amanda's trunk and remember what it's like to breathe normally." She cocks her head. "Machines keep a history, I think, and unless our intrepid person thought to erase that--which I don't know how, so I doubt they did, or thought to take the time--it should show up there. Something, anyway, no idea, Xerox is wizardry or something."

"Who has access to Admin?" Dean asks Alison.

"Everyone," Alison answers, annoyed. "Up until now, anyway. Only thing we keep restricted is supply and inventory, and fear of Lanak tends to make that unnecessary. Even if we had wanted to restrict it before, I don't see how."

"The daycare's right there," Dean agrees, slumping in his chair. "That doesn't narrow it down much."

"The people here who worked with those demons are my choice," Alicia says, startling them all with what is probably--to her--an obvious fact. "No reason to assume another creepy group was creeping Ichabod at the same time for different nefarious purposes that include stealing maps when we got one group conveniently creeping already and were semi-residents as well. Logic."

Alison frowns. "But they're dead."

"They are," Alicia agrees. "Which may explain how this became a terrible plan instead of an almost-decent one, I'll come back to that. Anyway, we have two demons who got away, human tools are disposable, and not like it's hard to find more in the infected zone, which is my next point. Whether or not this is directly related to the first attack--and while I can't see how it is yet, Occam's razor applies, so they're related--we definitely have demon involvement here." She looks around the bewildered faces. "By the way, I guess no one's noticed Cas's art class project has a lot of overlap with our twenty maps there? Probably the colors distracted everyone; me, I like color. Makes things a lot clearer."

"What?" Cas says in surprise, but Dean almost hears something click over that's been in the back of his mind since he first saw it. Getting to his feet, he crosses the room to the table map leaning against the wall and crouches to follow all those colored roads.

"Joe," he says, "help me get this up on a table by those other maps."

"I'll help," Manuel says as everyone gets up, Amanda clearing the table before she and Vera push it against the wall.

As soon as he, Joe, and Manuel get it in place on the table and at eye level with the twenty maps, Dean takes a step back to take it in; the blotches of color as they trail from point to point before joining other colors, the occasional barely-visible dot that represents a town, the anonymous brown lines that represent the presence of roads, all drawn from memory, but unlike every other map Cas has made, this one doesn't tell them road quality, town location, patrol zones, population; one thing only, but it's a doozy.

"Migration patterns," he says out loud, just to make sure he's getting the obvious here, and takes the lack of dissent as yes. Glancing at the closest of the twenty maps, he checks Cas's map and sees every goddamn route. "Color indicates origin north, south, east, west, and where they join up. Cas?"

"Yes," he says after a moment. "I was reading the reports, and I--I've found writing things down sometimes helps me find clarity. In this case, I wondered if a visual representation might--do that."

"You were right." Dean focuses on the one thing that he couldn't quite get: those grey lines. Pale silver at all start points--and always on or near those splotches of color and bracketing each road those colors follow. As the colors deepen with each convergence of the roads--or join other colors as more people join each other on the roads or maybe pick up hitchhikers, explains why Cas started out with primaries and white to get oranges, greens, and purples in varying shades and depth--the grey darkens with them. The four roads into IH-Ichabod are surrounded in dark grey, but IH-Ichabod isn't just dark grey, but layers of it, almost tearing the paper in violent strokes. And Ichabod itself is the only town that gets more than a dot--it also gets a dark grey link to a jagged black circle that surrounds the whole. 

"Alicia," he says over his shoulder. "You see what I see?"

"I do," she says, coming up beside him. "Cas, you said you pulled this from the reports?"

"Yes--at least, those who talked to patrol about how they got here, and what our patrol reported to me," Cas answers. "It wasn't much."

"It was at least one example of each of the map routes and from this, I see maybe five we missed," Alicia answers, and Dean looks at her, seeing the blue eyes narrow. "Make that possibly seven--we only have two confirmed routes from the south on the wall, which isn't very well represented in refugees so far. I wonder if they ran out of time getting this around the state?"

"Is anyone going to fill us in?" Teresa asks, joining Alison, who's standing a few feet away and staring at Cas's map with a blank expression.

Dean steps closer to trace a thin brown line going south, bare of ornamentation, wondering about the wide areas that don't have any color at all; places that didn't get the memo, maybe? "The colored roads are the exact routes on those Xeroxes, making sure everyone took these specific roads and joined at these specific points."

"I see it," Teresa says, waving toward the north and goddamn Waterville. "Starting north?"

"I think east," Alicia says cryptically. "They had the longest to go, and if you ask why our person sent the east all the way west? Not sure since we don't have a detailed explanation and the probable original planners are dead, but on a guess, to avoid them arriving too early, too late, and/or going through any other town and maybe stopping to ask about the thing before our person had been there to tell them about the thing themselves. Or be killed for being strangers, as is the way of some towns, not naming names or anything. For as you may notice, these routes may start at a town, but don't go through one once you start. At least, not one with an existing population. Cas?"

"She's correct," Cas confirms. "At least, as of our check of Kansas four months ago, which our map showed as well."

"This is what I meant about this being possibly an almost decent plan that went so very wrong," Alicia says thoughtfully, nodding to herself. "First mistake: timing. Implementation dates, I mean. That's the only explanation."

Dean tries to see what Alicia's seeing and just doesn't. "Anytime you're ready to tell us….?"

"I mean, from the look of this, the routes--weird as they are--weren't a terrible way to space out arrival," she says, tipping her head sideways before pointing at the start points. "You're thinking of shortest line between two points, getting them here fast; that wasn't the original goal."

"But you said--" Dean starts.

"Get them here was the goal," she says, eyes never leaving the map. "But in a not-terrible-plan timeframe, just an almost but not quite decent one. First rule--don't put them all on the same roads on the same routes at the same time, both to avoid traffic--which we all see failed but only once they got to the bottlenecks near Ichabod and started stacking up--and possibly 'avoid everyone noticing everyone else fleeing' and setting off real panic. Or hide it from Chitaqua's patrol," she adds thoughtfully. "These do avoid our patrol routes as much as possible.

"I'm guessing--and this is a guess, but it's what I would have done with this if I made bad plans that I wanted to work somehow--that the original plan potentially had our first arrivals showing up four or five days before the party and steadily continue in large but less traffic-intense groups," Alicia continues. "Sure, way too many people in one space, but to give them credit, there was no way around that part, since getting them here was the goal; at least they were mitigating it by spacing it out a little more and the roads into Ichabod wouldn't be Tokyo on a bad day. Instead, the earliest person to be told about this who's arrived in Ichabod got the news three days before the party. I'd say this plan was put into action at most five days ago to account for people not doing what they were told immediately or packing, whatever. And they did pack," she points out. "Saw it myself, trunks were full."

"Three to five _days_? How the hell would they be able to get all over the state--" Dean shuts his mouth. "One of those demons recruited someone else--a lot of someone elses--to finish the job? Since the people who were planning-- _probably_ planning this were dead?"

"This is the infected zone; someone's always interested in making a deal," Alicia answers. "Which is why not a good plan, but it may have been almost decent if it was implemented by the people who came up with it and in time. Instead, we got someone--maybe our mysterious trader and others--starting it very late and had to get all the way around the state in three to five days while handing out these maps. It can't be done by a person in a jeep or even a few dozen, Dean, this is just reality. The trader in question _talked to people_ , handing out maps and talking earnestly about their personal relationship with their lives and how they can be saved. How evangelical of them: I wonder if they got a couple of Jehovah Witnesses to help? They're really good at being earnest."

"And you still think this is to save people?" Alison demands. "If demons are involved--"

"To save their families, those people made a deal," Alicia interrupts with an edge in her voice, and Dean just barely stops himself from reacting. "All the infiltrators had kids of the right age to match the ones in the church, that part makes sense; those are the ones the demons made a deal with--"

"It makes _sense_?" Flushing, Alison turns on Alicia. "Those fuckers sold out this entire town and were gathering up our kids to watch them be killed in front of them! They _brought_ their kids here, what kind of people--"

"It was _for_ their kids!" Alicia snaps back; the flash of anger comes out of nowhere, like lightning from a clear sky. "They knew at least some of them were going to die doing this--this was _contract_ , what the fuck do you think they were getting out of this if they were going to be too dead to enjoy earthly delights?" Hands clenched, she never looks away from Alison. "Those people were going to knowingly infiltrate a town, live with the residents, use their own kids to help them identify the kids from the church, and actively help those demons kill those kids and die themselves in the act; it's a very small percentage of people that could do that and not care, and I seriously fucking _doubt_ this group just happened to break the odds. This was shitty, it was unthinkable, but if they were gonna do it, they sure as fuck made sure what they were getting was worth it!"

Alicia pauses, taking a deep breath. "Some people sell their souls for success, for revenge, for power, name it and someone's been stupid enough to want it enough to sell themselves to get it," she says with fragile calm, and distantly, Dean feels Cas's arm against his, fingers brushing over the back of his hand. "But top of the list will always be love. They didn't make contract for themselves; it was for their kids. They're all still in Ichabod right now--why? Their parents could have asked pretty much anything from a demon-shaped genie--and don't kid yourself here, this wasn't their only option--but here those kids stayed when their parents died. That was the contract: what they did in exchange for what they wanted for their kids, and they wanted what all parents want: safety. Ichabod--the town they betrayed, who would have less than no reason to look kindly upon their children after their parents murdered the kids from the church--was _still_ their best possible choice, and there's gotta be a reason for that. It's a nice town and you take in orphans, you're great, don't get me wrong, but come _on_ ; no one sane would have assumed your altruism would stand up against straight-up premeditated murder with their kids' lives on the line unless this was their best possible option."

Alison doesn't answer, mouth tight, but Dean thinks she's getting it. "Best possible option."

"Best in this world," Alicia says more quietly. "Whatever is bringing everyone here, it's the same thing those people were afraid of, enough to…." She stops again, licking her lips. "They were still people, and people do shitty things for what they think are the best possible reasons. That doesn't mean they didn't feel it and try to do something--anything--to justify it. So they wanted to make sure other people--and their kids, to make up for the fifteen they were gonna kill--had the chance to survive. Give everyone what they sold their souls to give their own kids " She points at the map. "This is the proof."

"Guilt," Alison says heavily. "Jesus Christ."

"So let me get this straight," Dean starts. "The infiltrators planned this, and with all of them dead--which probably wasn't part of the plan, some were supposed to survive--the demons had to make another deal to finish it." Alicia nods earnestly. "Since those people--maybe--put saving the entire state in the contract?"

"That very last part I'm still working on," Alicia admits with a scowl, having apparently forgotten all about that burst of anger. "This plan was human-approved; all they needed demonic assistance for was getting around the state and maybe help be convincing with special demon powers--can they do that?--but if the plan to get people here was demon approved, you'd think there'd be--I don't know, fine, but _parking_ and _traffic_ wouldn't need to be features, let's put it that way. Demons are evil genies; you'd think they'd use that if it was contract for more than supernatural chauffeur."

Dean starts to agree when he stops short, meeting Cas's eyes and seeing it hit him at the same time: contracts, deals, how those happen, maybe at a Crossroad, _fuck_. "That's how they've been getting across the border with the barrier up."

Teresa frowns. "Yeah, I'm still wondering about that. If the border turns Croats into ashes, how the hell are demons--" She stiffens, turning to Dean, and he wonders if it makes him feel better she didn't figure it out either. "Fuck."

"Glad to know we all missed this one," Dean says in disgust. "We saw the fucking Croats start on fire at the border, yeah, but a demon wouldn't risk testing that in a meatsuit. Better idea: forget the body, test the barrier holding out against a summoning. That's how Jeffrey knew the barrier was weakening: a Crossroad summoning to make a deal with someone _in Kansas_ finally worked. Same way they got through Ichabod's wards; they can't block a summoning, can they, Teresa?"

Teresa shakes her head grimly. "No, just slow it down. If I'm aware of it, a lot, but if I'm not…dammit. With the number of Croats hitting the ward line, I wouldn't have been able to even tell it was even happening, especially if they timed it to match the Croats. Not bad as a distraction."

"And now we know why there were so many Croats," Dean says grimly. "The barrier became permeable to summoning two months ago, with Jeffrey arriving to tell us all about it. What are the chances it's about to fall, and after a five month hiatus, everything out there that's pissed at being locked out is coming back in and is going to show everyone in this state just how much?"

"That would explain why Dina and Antonio were surprised by the storm's rate of build," Cas says unexpectedly. "To create a barrier of that size and with those properties--as well as maintain it--takes an immense amount of power. If it's collapsing, that only means it doesn't have enough power to maintain itself, not that there's no power left at all, and when it's released, it has to go somewhere."

"Backlash," Teresa says. "You think it's down already?"

"Something that large would take time to collapse," Cas answers. "Which we can all be thankful for, and it's not as if there's anything else so we should take what we can get. Assuming the storm's growth is any indication, it's just started and the backlash will be spread out over days, even as much as a week."

"It making a blizzard from a snowy night is _best_ case scenario?" Alison asks flatly. "What's worst?"

"If whoever designed it was incompetent or if for some reason something caused it to collapse all at once," Cas says. "In which case, best case scenario would be the instantaneous death of everyone in the state."

"You know what," Dean interjects before someone insists on more totally unnecessary information for theoretical trauma purposes, "if it's not happening, I don't care. Moving on."

"What's happening today is definitely related to the attack on Ichabod," Cas continues gloomily. "This would be the latest part--that we know of--of a larger plan, likely with more parts we have yet to discover in case anyone was foolish enough to believe in the existence of optimism, but at least we can now confirm they're all joined by the Crossroads."

Dammit, that's exactly what Dean didn't want to hear.

"So the goal was to save everyone in the state," Alison says in a rigid voice. "Or almost everyone. That meant they had to be here. So my question--why _here_? What makes Ichabod so special?"

"There are no start points on Cas's map--or the others--within about, what, thirty miles of Ichabod?" Alicia frowns at the map before nodding. "Sure, that's mostly locals and the Alliance, so why bother--and for that matter, risk someone telling Ichabod about the thing too early--but--hey." Going to Cas's map, she draws a line in the air from north to south down the rough center of Kansas, crossing just east of Ichabod, then repeats east-west, and Ichabod's just south of that. "Congratulations, Alison. Ichabod is the only town that passes for dead center of the state. Or, farthest point from any of the borders. Teresa's wards were probably a plus, but in a show of understanding reality, our not-as-stupid-as-I-thought planners did get you can't fit the entire state in Ichabod and gave them a thirty mile buffer. Not that our refugees were told that, though: I wonder why?"

Before Dean can say anything, he feels something like a ripple just as Cas stills, eyebrows jumping. Following his gaze, Dean sees Alison staring at the map, but the hazel eyes are fixed, pupils swallowing the iris into a thin greenish strip; beside her, Teresa has her head tilted, like she's listening to something. A glance around: Vera and Joe look confused, Alicia curious (of course), but Amanda and Kamal are standing very still, expressions intent, like they're trying to hear something very, very far away.

Fighting down alarm--they like Alison and trust her and everything--Dean nudges Cas as another not-ripple slides by him. "Uh, what is Alison…doing right now?"

"Saving time I already don't have enough of already," Alison answers, sounding strained, and he wonders if he's imagining the faint echo in her voice. "Let's start with numbers, Cas. Those routes are statewide; that means, unless I miss my guess, the whole state could be coming here. Total possible: go."

"One half million people, but if the migration pattern is accurate, either some didn't receive the invitation or…."

"Aren't here yet," she finishes. "Cas, do your math trick for me. The only thing I care about is space, as in physically possible to get people into and away from death by exposure; snow is coming at midnight, and that's what we're dealing with first. Reference: Syracuse to Fifth, and I'm thinking right now of Tony's last report on buildings repaired."

"One hundred and twenty thousand, four hundred and ninety-five using ten square feet per person," Cas answers like it's perfectly normal to talk to someone staring at the wall. "Roughly one hundred and eighty-five thousand if reduced to six point five feet per person, and I wouldn't recommend dropping lower than that for very long. Humans are social animals, but you do like your space and will kill others to acquire it."

In the silence that follows (though with weird almost-there ripples that he realizes are actually possibly avoiding him; what, does he smell or something?), Dean decides to just ask. "Cas, who all is she talking to? And why?"

"Everyone she needs for what she's planning to do now," Cas answers, tilting his head with a faint smile that--holy shit, is that _pride_? "And--" He frowns faintly, and Dean has the very unpleasant realization that Cas can hear her, too, has since the first. "Yes, excellent, they can also hear each other now as well. She's making extraordinary progress."

"Baltimore to Seventh," Teresa says unexpectedly and reaches unerringly for Alison's hand, squeezing it as it tries to clench into a fist. "Nine streets. Cas?"

"Three hundred and ten thousand at six point five feet per person."

"We'll start there," Alison says, eyes narrowing before she nods at some unheard comment and closes her eyes, staggering and almost falling before Vera catches her while Kamal and Amanda shake themselves, looking way less surprised than they should be if this is the first time Alison's been hanging around their minds. "Thanks," she says faintly, reaching up to rub her temple and wincing. "Migraines are for later, this is now."

Dean swallows: one half a million people, Jesus. "Alison--"

"Our Allies need to know now," she says, looking at Dean. "They're being informed as we speak. With other people telling them," she says acidly at his expression. "With their _voices_ \--"

" _Got_ it," Dean snaps back. " _Thanks_. Wait, right now?" Alison nods sardonically. "Joe, you and Vera go for me and Cas and give our votes, which is whatever Ichabod goes with."

He knows he just admitted something when agreeing to send proxies for him and Cas, but he's still going to say fuck no when Cas finally asks him what he knows he's been thinking since he said the common thread was Crossroads. And worse, Dean thinks he just might have a good reason to say yes.

"Alicia, Kamal, wait up front," he says. "I need to talk to Vera, Amanda, and Joe before they go."

"Got it," Alicia says with a jaunty salute before following Alison and Teresa out the door, Kamal politely closing it behind them. 

"Vera," Dean says quietly. "Lock the door."

As soon as he hears it click, he turns around, avoiding looking directly at Cas.

"Cas, you said--remember when I asked you how much power it would take to make a barrier around Kansas?" he asks. "You said it wasn't impossible, but--"

"It'd be faster and easier to simply kill every supernatural being with a rusty knife," Cas interrupts impatiently. "For a human, your memory is annoyingly good. I remember."

"How about now?"

Cas licks his lips. "I'm not sure. If I read the circle correctly, at least two thousand to cover the same length of time: probably more, but certainly no less. Blocking summoning as well as Greek Fire both require a great deal of power, and they may decide to improve it."

For a second, Dean can't see anything, black spots filling his vision, even as Vera asks, "Wait, what? Two thousand _what_?"

"Human lives." He takes a deep breath as the memory of the circle burns itself into the backs of his eyelids, glowing sickly white and putrid yellow-green, carved into the snow around an isolated town, maybe, one that didn't get the message to run and each route coming to Ichabod was careful to avoid. "Part two of the Ichabod Plan. Part I; find out if that circle even works. That was why the demons are still involved, or at least part of the reason. The kids from the church were supposed to be the test case, make sure the sacrifice worked and if it did, how much power they could get so they could do the math for something bigger." He looks at Cas. "Much bigger."

"The barrier?" Vera sucks in a breath. "You think whoever made it in the first place is--recharging it, whatever? Why?"

"Possibly the same reason it was created in the first place," Cas answers evasively and Dean hopes to God he didn't just flinch. "That would explain why people are being sent to Ichabod, and not just from whatever _could_ be outside the border. Moving this many people this quickly: something specific is waiting for it to collapse as well."

"Why something specific?" Dean asks.

"The existence of the barrier would be interesting--and by that I mean frustrating--to anything that uses Kansas as a hunting ground," Cas answers. "But it would be very interesting--and by that I mean dangerously intriguing--to anything that wanted to know what was here that it's protecting, and once it's down, will make it their business to find out."

Mouth dry, Dean braces himself when he remembers he's not the only one in Kansas for whom that barrier was pretty goddamn useful. "Alison."

"Alison," Cas agrees, expression darkening. "And that will bring more attention to Teresa and her apprentices as well. While I can't guess what specific entity is waiting, there are none that wouldn't qualify as incredibly dangerous on this plane just by the fact they exist."

"If we could find out where they're doing the sacrifice…." Amanda trails off, closing her eyes. "Crap, we can't."

"Even if we knew and could get out--and we could get enough clear road--we can't leave now," Dean says. "When the barrier comes down, everything out there--and whatever those people were worried about coming through--is going to notice the migration in progress to Ichabod. They don't have to bother hunting down the survivors all over the state; they're here or on their way. It's like a goddamn arrow pointing straight here."

Cas tilts his head. "Unintended consequence of an already bad plan."

"Half a million people in Kansas against those kids, a few deaths on the road, and whoever's gonna be sacrificed to get the barrier up," Dean spits out. "Who says no when they're asked to save the world? Or at least their part of the world. Guilt in action."

"If the circle raises this much power," Cas starts, "all of Hell will know of it very quickly, and whoever performed it will be discovered one way or another. Altruism isn't generally a characteristic I associate with demons."

Dean opens his mouth to answer then realizes they're not alone in the room.

"Okay, you three, go hunt up the other mayors before the meeting and start working on them," Dean says, jerking his head toward the door. "Whatever you can to get them to help with this."

Dean waits for them to leave before locking the door himself. "No."

"Dean--"

"No," he says again, starting back to the table and trying to think of an actual reason his answer. "Cas, don't even think it. Do you even _know_ him?"

Cas shrugs. "We met once before I Fell and not since: why?"

Dean fights back a groan; why the hell haven't they talked about this before? "Look, it's not that much of a risk for him, he's using minions, so it--" Cas's eyebrows jump. "They're his demons, fine! They were summoned, that doesn't mean he's involved--fuck, even I know better than that, son of a _bitch_. Crowley set it up, somehow, all of it; all he needed were some desperate people to summon the Crossroads to set it in motion."

"Which leaves many unanswered questions still, but the most important is why Crowley would want that barrier back up," Cas says, frowning. "He may not want Lucifer to win, but what use would it be now to him? As far as he knows, Lucifer won."

"Give me a second." Christ, why didn't he ever think to tell Cas about Crowley before? He wants to think he just didn't think about it, but no. "So you know the bigger plan which has many parts, some we don't know about yet? I may know what the end game is here."

"Somehow getting Lucifer back in his Cage?" Cas asks, eyes wide. "I wouldn't have guessed that."

"Or kill him, and end game, get crowned King of Hell."

Cas makes a face. "Crossroads is very powerful, yes, and Crowley does have an almost endless supply of minions, but--"

"Remember when I told you how we got Lucifer back in his Cage?"

"You're very loquacious when you're drunk," Cas agrees warily. "Why?"

"Did I tell you about what happened after?"

"No, you passed out before…" Cas stares at him for a long minute, and Dean can almost _see_ it click. "You're joking."

"Nope." 

Cas eyes fix on the middle distance. "He had a plan."

"He had a plan," Dean says. "All he needs is Lucifer back in the Cage."

"Dean," Cas says finally, "in that case, you must see why--"

"You want to go to the nearest crossroad not occupied by cars outside of Teresa's wards," Dean says flatly. "And summon a Crossroad demon, politely decline a deal but would like to make an appointment with Crowley, is now a good time?"

"Essentially," Cas agrees, "yes."

"No."

"He may have a reason to kill me," Cas says slowly. "But I doubt it, and in the absence, there's no reason for him to do so and many reasons to want me alive."

"How about for fun?" Dean counters desperately. "He's a demon! They do that shit all the time!"

"He's not just a demon," Cas answers. "He's King of the Crossroads. He was heir of the oldest demon in Hell, and he is for a demon very young and was even younger when Lilith chose him. Ruthlessness in this case must be leavened by judgment, and that includes recognizing the potential for use of anything or anyone he may need to advance or hold his position against all challenge. Killing for pleasure is of course a wondrous way to pass the time, but so is ruling the entire Crossroads and being the most powerful demon in Hell. He won't kill anyone with any potential use to further his ambitions, protect his position, or cause problems for his enemies. I may be useless on two of those, but the third--I'm a guaranteed at minimum annoyance to Lucifer simply in existing."

He's not wrong--especially considering it's Crowley they're talking about--but that's not the problem. "That isn't a good reason--"

"For Crowley? That's a very good reason to want me to be alive and continue to annoy him and hopefully do things to further upset him," Cas argues, which Dean can't actually argue because it's true. "This is one of those few times that it's perfectly acceptable to be what I am. It bothers my Brothers very much."

"An angel wallowing in the dirt with humanity?" Dean asks, honestly going for mean but context: uh.

Cas smiles at him, and Dean's suddenly trapped between Cas and the edge of the table with no clear idea what they were talking about. "Oh yes," he says huskily. "Wallow, consort, cavort, lie with humans at my pleasure and much more horrifyingly, theirs. And now," Cas's voice manages an impossible gravelly drop, "I share my bed exclusively with the Righteous Man who willingly made binding with me. If I could, I'd marry you immediately and ask Crowley to take pictures and send them to all my Brothers just on principle."

"Marry?" Dean says blankly.

"That's the part you heard," Cas says with a sigh. "When Lucifer saw me in Kansas City, he confirmed that within this flesh is my true form--an angel bound to ashes and dust--and in retrospect, I'm actually somewhat surprised he didn't kill me in sheer horror of degradation by proxy. Small miracles indeed, but illustrates my point; anything that distracts and upsets my Brothers is to his benefit, from recruitment to expansion of territory, and it costs him nothing to let me live so I can continue doing it."

Fuck his life, Dean actually can see that. "No."

"And less certain but only because all things are--he does want me for something, if Jeffrey is any indication, and it might be best that I find out sooner rather than later. I have to admit," Cas adds thoughtfully, and Dean hates those two words already, "both an honest dread of how Crowley thinks I could be useful as well as reluctant curiosity." Jesus Christ, this is actually happening. "In any case, I'd rather find out on my own terms rather than his."

Reaching out, he jerks Cas against him, gripping the soft flannel desperately. "Look--"

"And this--whatever this is--is related to the barrier, a barrier that was constructed in conjunction with your arrival in this world," Cas says quietly, leaning his forehead against Dean's and fighting with unfair shit like facts. "If I can find out something--anything--that may--"

"Don't say it." Closing his eyes, Dean takes a deep breath. "This isn't about me, we got too much shit going on right now to even go there."

"As you wish." Cas hesitates. "The last reason--even less certain at any other time except now--is that I'm the only of my Brethren would could--potentially--deal with him. If he wishes to rule Hell, he must deal with my Brothers, and if he has a plan, I may be able to give him a better one."

Christ, can history repeat itself--sort of--in a different world where that's not actually in its history? "Cas," he tries, "he can't actually believe you'll deal with him."

"He's not stupid enough to assume there are no circumstances in which I wouldn't," Cas answers with terrifying accuracy. "Even I don't believe that. He's Crossroads; he knows better than either of us there is a price on every soul; his job is to meet it. I don't know my price, but I can't risk believing he couldn't discover it, or that one doesn't exist." He studies Dean for an unnerving moment. "What, specifically, concerns you?"

"All of it?" Dean tries desperately. "You get--if you don't come back--"

"I'll come back."

"If you don't come back," Dean says flatly. "I'm gonna come find you."

Cas starts to smile, but it vanishes as he takes in Dean's expression.

"Every risk you take," Dean continues, holding his eyes, "I'm gonna be taking with you. Cas, it's your life, I get that, and I can't stop you. But you can't pretend that you're the only one that's gonna be affected by the choices you make and you have no fucking say over mine. You don't come back by dusk, this is what's going to happen: I will come and find you."

"Dean.…" 

"So don't do anything stupid," he interrupts, hands fisting helplessly in the soft flannel. "You get in, get shit done, get out, and kill anything that gets between you and here, but you get back. Something goes wrong--anything--don't worry about it, I can handle it. There's nowhere they can take you that I won't find you. Got it?"

Cas nods slowly. "I understand."

"Good." Dean realizes he's able to smile, and to his own surprise, it's genuine now. "Gotta tell Alison this one. Sure, her girlfriend can order the earth around, but my partner's gonna confront the King of the Crossroads, and fuck yeah I win."

Cas starts to laugh, head dropping against Dean's shoulder. "I'm not an angel anymore. In a straight fight, he'd win with very little effort."

"Then make sure it's not a straight fight," Dean whispers, closing his eyes and holding on a little tighter: just a few more minutes. "And hey, bring me his head when you're done, okay?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In retrospect, adding this: please see warnings at the end if you don't mind being spoiled. Thanks to Tkodami for the recommendation.

_\--Day 152, continued--_

In what was once a suburb of the town that became Ichabod, Castiel finishes his work and steps back to wait. Unsurprisingly, his wait is minimal.

When the demon appears, wearing the body of an attractive twenty-five year old woman in the least practical dress possible for a Kansas winter, her "So how can I help you…", overly sultry and obviously not sufficiently practiced, cuts off when she sees him. " _Castiel_?"

Bemused, he watches a Crossroads demon stumble over her own six inch heels and almost fall into a drift of snow, wondering idly if Hell has the equivalent of a 'FBI's Most Wanted' posted in the Pit with his name and picture of his human form on it. This reaction is becoming far too common.

"Good afternoon," he says as she straightens. The damp hem of her dress dries instantly, but the carefully seductive expression is apparently irretrievable, wide brown eyes flashing to black in an endless succession that could very possibly induce nausea if viewed for too long. Very new, he thinks, tilting his head as he studies the blackened ruin of her true face behind the flushed skin of this body's cheeks when she faces him, and goes still as their eyes meet.

They stare at each other for several long moments before she finally straightens her shoulders and lifts her chin. "Here to make a deal?"

"Run along, pet," another voice says as Crowley joins her, giving her a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "We'll discuss how one deals with Fallen angels at a more convenient time."

As he reaches for her arm, she jerks back just beyond his reach before spinning to face him, and this time, the towering heels are no impediment at all. Demons can move far more quickly than humans, but she's far too new to have learned how to use a human body again, and this is her first since her own. One delicate fist snaps out in a blur of speed, and while Crowley has sufficient time to move, it doesn't help; she makes contact where he appears again, where she aimed in the first place.

Castiel thinks, throat tight: so something new can happen in Hell after all.

Crowley staggers but recovers quickly, and before Castiel even realizes what he's doing, he's standing between them.

"No." To his surprise, Ruby's knife is already in his hand. "I'm having a terrible day and very little time to waste before it gets much worse. You can discipline your subordinates another time."

Of everything he's ever done, however questionable, this very may well top the list: standing between the King of the Crossroad and one of his demons holding a weapon with every intention of using it. Dean's reminder was startlingly timely. The choices he makes may be his own, but the consequences will always be shared, and this a truly _terrible_ choice. Yet, he can't bring himself to move.

Crowley cocks his head, looking at him in mild interest. "You think I won't kill you, Castiel? Or did you forget that inconvenient mortality of yours?"

Behind him, he hears her low growl, the sound raising the hair on the back of his neck. He doesn't wonder anymore how a human could ever rise from the rack, knowing what they become. The obscenity of believing there's anything like a choice has never been more clear than in the demon behind him that was once a hunter. 

"I know I'll kill you," he answers. "Here or in Hell: at this moment, I'm not particular on the location."

"Very well," Crowley says after a slightly too-long pause, sounding bored. "She's released without penalty. This time. I'm certain it won't be the last." He smiles, all teeth, as she emerges warily, eyes fixed on Crowley with something between a demon's obedience and a hunter deciding the best place to plant a knife. He waves a hand. "You may go."

She flinches, skirt fluttering around her legs, but she doesn't move, staring at him with black-filmed eyes. Crowley's smile flickers. "Go. _Now_."

Castiel doesn't need to look to know she's gone; Crowley stares at the space she occupied for a long moment before turning his attention to Castiel, expression smoothed into practiced amusement. 

"This is a surprise," he says, tilting his head. "Whatever can I do for you, Castiel?"

"I want to make a deal."

"Oh." Crowley's smile widens. "You have no idea how pleased I am to hear you say that."

* * *

Dean nearly drops the box in surprise, blinking at nothing.

"Dean?" he hears Christina ask worriedly as he drops it on the desk, all attention turned inward. It takes him no time at all to find it; that tiny sliver of Cas is there, but pulled thin and lengthening, like an unspooling thread. 

Ignoring Christina, he concentrates as it grows longer, thinner, the desire to grab it and jerk it back nearly unbearable; the only thing that's stopping him is he doesn't know what that means or how to do it.

With an almost physical jolt, it stops; Dean takes one breath, then another, but it doesn't unspool further. Relieved, he relaxes, wondering what that sound is and abruptly realizes he's looking at Christina, who's snapping her fingers frantically in his face. "What?"

* * *

"I'm only agreeing to this," Crowley tells him, sinking into the plush comfort of an elegant mahogany chair on the other side of an unusually large fireplace, "because while your bloody Brother put whatever passes for your soul off limits, he can't do anything about lesser trades, and I'm very curious what you think you have to offer."

Seated in an identically comfortable chair, Castiel studies the elegantly appointed room with disfavor. The gold-flecked cream of the walls, rich glow of hardwood floors, and casual scattering of elaborately woven rugs between each piece of gleaming furniture aren't offensive in themselves and yet the urge to destroy all in his sight is nearly overwhelming . Tilting his head back, he eyes the graceful sweep of the chandelier above them before gazing into depths of the wide granite fireplace, focusing more cheerfully on the number of burning logs as the faint strains of an invisible cello haunts the room like the most depressingly mundane ghost in all of history. He can't think of anything that could improve this room as much as setting it on fire and salting the still-smoldering remains.

Salt first, he decides finally, turning his attention back to Crowley, then burn. Dean seemed to like the barbecue that was served at the celebration, and there's no time like the present to learn how to make it.

"That's interesting." Pride, he reflects, can be an extremely inconvenient character trait, especially when it seems to trump both logic and even simple expedience. "When did he do that?"

"Right before he started a sixty-six years and counting sulk." Crowley raises a hand and a glass of wine materializes, the color the exact shade of blood the moment before coagulation. Fire might help that, too, he thinks idly. "He kills Dean Winchester but fails to claim his soul for Hell, or yours for that matter; anyone else might ask about his sense of proportion. Me, I'm betting it'll be another few decades before he allows himself to take consolation in the fact he won the Apocalypse and rules both Hell and Earth."

"He's never dealt well with disappointment."

Crowley inclines his head. "Can I get you anything? Wine, cheese, a decent meal?" He wrinkles his nose, giving Castiel a lingering once over with something unsettlingly like appreciation. "Really, Castiel, didn't anyone explain how to care for a human body properly?"

"They tried." He thinks of Dean with an almost physical pang of longing. "Only recently, however, did it occur to me to listen."

"Only you." Raising the glass in a mocking toast, Crowley take a drink. "So before we get any further; what, exactly, is it that you're offering?"

"What you're going to tell everyone when we're done," he answers. "That I summoned you at the Crossroads and offered to make a deal. All of Hell being aware that you succeeded where Lucifer failed should be sufficient to offer in trade."

Crowley snorts. "While admittedly a lovely thought, what use would that be to me? You're not that important, Castiel."

"To the King of the Crossroad demons and heir to Lilith? That's possibly true," he admits. "Unless you don't plan to resign your position immediately, of course."

Crowley's eyes narrow. "Excuse me?"

"My mistake," Castiel answers pleasantly, settling more comfortably into the rich brocade. "So there's no need to revisit how less than ten minutes ago, I watched a demon who has never known a human body other than her own use the first one she acquired after rising from the rack in a successful attack on you. Excellent, you're aware of the problem."

Crowley expression darkens. "One time--"

"One punch in a body not her own after rising from the rack after _twenty-five years on it_ ," he elaborates. "I can _count_. Though that wouldn't be a problem if you could control her. Which you can't."

"I can control her," he answers shortly, but once again, that flicker, there and gone. "She'll learn. They all will."

"That's what they said about Dean Winchester, and I don't need to remind you how precarious Alistair's control was becoming before I claimed his soul." Crowley's expression darkens. "When I decided to deal with you, I thought all I had to offer was a very useful way to sow dissent among my erstwhile Brothers and with any luck increase their misery in my existence. Apparently, I have a great deal more and didn't know it."

"Exactly what is it that you're offering again?" Castiel tilts his head, fascinated by the slowly spreading web of cracks in Crowley's glass from the pressure of his fingers. "So far, this interview is rather mundane, so if you'll get to the point…."

"She rose as a demon and is bound to you," he says. "But if you think I don't know the value of that particular soul in Hell, you must be stupider than you seem to think I am. There is no possible way my Brothers could have missed it, which means they don't even know she exists here yet. You're hiding her, and I'd ask why, but as it's for someone else, that question is best left to them."

"Who do you think--"

"Her master. You weren't the one who broke her on the rack, and she belongs to whoever did. Her obedience isn't by right of ownership but fear alone, and not much of that. If anyone else saw what I did today, they'd know it as well."

The glass shatters, spilling wine over Crowley's hand and staining the starched white perfection of his shirt. 

"I'd ask why you were willing to take her when she would never be yours, much less conceal her within the Crossroads, but I don't actually care. What concerns me is what price I can put on the information that there's dissension in the ranks of the Crossroads and what exactly it is that's sowing it so well. Off the top of my head, I can think of five demons and two of my Brethren who would allow me to name my own price for the opportunity to destroy you. All of them," he adds maliciously, "would also appreciate the cachet inherent in succeeding with the last member of the Host on earth, which you have yet to do."

Crowley doesn't answer, which for the moment is satisfaction enough.

"I think that it may be time to discuss the terms of my silence," he adds. "I'd like some coffee first, however. Four cream, four sugar, and do you have available something called 'Kona'?"

* * *

"Are you sure?" Christina asks worriedly, following him as he retrieves his coffee cup and finishes the (cold) contents in a gulp.

"I'm fine--stop that!" he says, outraged when one hand lands on his forehead as she looks at him intently. "What the hell?"

"No fever," she says, evading his attempt to slap her hand away and holding up three fingers. "How many--"

"Don't even," he warns. "What was that about?"

"Standing there like you had a, I don't know, stroke or something!" she answers hotly, crossing her arms. "What was I supposed to think?"

"Do stroke victims usually stand around?"

"No idea," she answers, glaring at him. "This is you; you do stuff like this."

Blinking at her, he wonders if maybe he is having a stroke or something. "What?"

"Weird two week fever from a brownie bite," she answers reasonably, cocking her head to peer at him before nodding and turning back to yet another box of maps. "Who does that? You."

Dean sputters for a minute as she serenely finishes stacking it with the others. "You can't hold that against me forever."

"I converted to three religions those two weeks," she answers grimly as he retrieves the last box from the Volunteer Services and sets it with the others. "One we made up."

He leans a hip against the desk. "What's it about?"

"I was really drunk," she admits. "But I'm Carrier of the Thing, and before you ask, I don't know what that is either." Catching sight of his face as she tightens the dark red pony tail at the base of her neck, she asks, "What?"

"Calculating the probability of Chitaqua housing the top one percent of the weirdest people in the world." She rolls her eyes. "Hey, I gotta do something, stick around and make sure no one gets into trouble or slip in the shower on the third floor?"

She nods. "Where you going?"

"Just over to…." He stops himself at the attentive look on her face. "I can go wherever I want."

"You can," she agrees, nodding.

"Exactly. Just over to Admin, in case anyone needs me---someone's going to follow me, aren't they?" She nods again. "No."

"Yes, sir." 

He almost leaves it there but-- "I'm serious. You want what happened to Sean to be you?"

"I like my team," she says unanswerably, raising three fingers together with a solemn look. "I'm not following you. Scout's honor." 

Every so often, Dean has to admit (to himself) that his militia can outthink him; this isn't one of those times. "You're not going to follow me?"

"No," she answers promptly.

"Then who is?"

"I don't know." Christina has the grace to flush. "None of us know, Dean. So we can't tell you when you ask."

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. "Fine. If I see 'em…."

"They'll be subtle," she promises. "Have fun!"

"Whatever," Dean mutters, going out the door of the Situation Room and stepping onto a colorful mosaic floor in an enormous white room scattered with massive Corinthian columns reaching toward a ceiling so distant it might as well be the sky, dotted with endless tiny bursts of lights like the outlines of constellations.

He stops short, blowing out an annoyed breath: this goddamn building. "I _knew_ it."

* * *

"It was a surprise when we finally got through, believe me," Crowley says, enjoying his third glass of wine and apparently unaffected by the less than ideal beginning of their (what could be loosely defined as) contractual relationship. "Be set on fire at the border or a bloody migraine of a backlash when summoned: it was awful."

Sipping the coffee from a surprisingly large mug, Castiel reflects wistfully on peanut butter cups and Kona coffee; it's a terrible idea to develop a taste for things there's little possibility he'll be able to acquire again.

"So you want me to believe all this is a coincidence?"

"Obviously not, since it's not true." Finishing the glass, he regards Castiel in barely hidden amusement.. "I was beginning to worry we'd fall behind schedule. More than we already are, in any case. Would you like more coffee?"

Castiel reminds himself that not only is patience a virtue, he's usually very good at exercising it. "Let's start at the beginning, then: who created the barrier and how?"

"Don't know," Crowley answers airily. "Next?"

He's enjoying this, Castiel realizes; much more unsettling is the fact that he's enjoying it as well. Their first meeting--or rather, Dean's, as Castiel can't pretend he was participating in more than in being in the same room--gave him little idea of Crowley in more than generalities and a sense of vaguely hostile amusement. Crowley is extraordinarily pleasant for a demon, as well as charming. He supposes the latter would be a job requirement; the former, however, generally isn't a feature of any demon he's ever met. 

"If the barrier has been such an inconvenience, why was it created in the first place?"

"It should be obvious enough, I think," Crowley answers, pausing to refill his glass, this time in a showy stream of wine from mid-air. Sipping it, he nods to himself before returning his attention to Castiel. "You do realize all this posturing was pointless? We're on the same side in this."

"That much I guessed. What I'd like to know is why."

"The Apocalypse's still in progress, Castiel, but only as long as Dean Winchester walks the earth. This time around, like to keep it that way."

He stills, cup forgotten in one hand. "Dean Winchester died by Lucifer's hand five months ago."

"Convenient, that," he agrees, studying his glass critically. "No other way to get the upgrade to one who could actually win."

* * *

A few minutes of looking around tell him two things: one, this is a _really goddamn big room_ , and two, if there's a door, he can't find it. 

He gives up trying to reach the far walls after only a few tries; no matter how long he walks, it's pretty obvious he's never gonna get there, time to move on. Coming back to where he started (the only wall that doesn't make a break for it, which he assumes means something), he watches in surprise as black lines begin to appear on the starkly white stone, curving into shapes before his eyes, brilliant color following in long streaks, and stepping back, he watches five pictures form one by one, scenes torn from mythology and brought vividly to life.

Demeter in her tattered grey cloak, hood thrown back to reveal hair the color of ripe wheat, face drawn in lines of suffering as she walks through snowy, winter-barren fields after her daughter Persephone was stolen by Hades; Clytemnestra weeping over Iphigenia's body while Agamemnon stands over them, holding a sword still dripping with their daughter's blood; Hecuba of Troy kneeling before the half-open cask that holds the dismembered remains of her son, slain by the King of Thrace when Troy fell; Medea in Corinth, dry-eyed and rigid, her children clinging to her skirts as Jason abandons her for marriage to the daughter and heir of the King; and finally, one he doesn't recognize at all. 

It's a room, white-plastered walls decorated with simple, stylized frescos, but a longer look reveals the inspiration of an artist in each line, the completed designs slowly baked into the plaster itself, and that implies the kind of wealth you build over generations. What furniture he can see follows; sharply angled, high-backed chairs, low sofas cushioned with unforgiving horsehair, simple tables of citrus wood, a single, unadorned urn of water surrounded by rare Alexandrian glass goblets. An older woman in a simple black woolen dress and _palla_ , thick black hair streaked heavily with white pulled into a severe bun, is seated, rigidly erect, in a chair, while a man with matted grey hair and wearing dirt and blood streaked armor, kilt edged with dried mud, waits on one knee, red-plumed helmet tucked in the crook of his arm, head bowed.

Despite her age--she's gotta be pushing sixty at least, Dean thinks--it's impossible to think of her as old; the dark olive, fine-boned face is ageless, but the dark eyes are what strike him, still and expressionless, but it's an illusion, hiding something beneath he can't quite define.

Seated to her left is a middle aged woman, dark brown hair set in a softer series of rolls and face more square, but the dark lashed brown eyes marks her as the woman's daughter, and so does the impassive expression. To the right are two younger women, a thirtysomething brunette, darkly pretty, and a delicate twenty-something blonde, spectacularly beautiful despite red-rimmed blue eyes sunk in bruised shadows as she clutches a baby against her chest.

"… _domina_ , they threw his body to Father Tiber," the man rasps, exhaustion written into every line of his body. "We searched, but they--" 

He cuts himself off as the blonde woman begins to wail over the child in her arms. Another woman appears, head bowed submissively, waiting for the older woman's nod before going to take the child and bearing it away.

The older woman nods. "Tell me the rest."

"Opimius offered a rich reward to whoever brought him Gaius Sempronius's head," he says, looking from red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. " _Domina_ , you must begin preparations immediately; his property is forfeit and goes to State auction, and--"

"Where will we go?" the sobbing woman wails, and the older woman turns to look at her, expression impassive as the brunette wraps a comforting arm around her shoulders. "What will we do, left without succor--my husband dead and disgraced, his body defiled, his shade lost…." The words trail into helpless sobs.

"See to Licinia, Claudia," the older woman says tonelessly, and Claudia eases Licinia to her feet, catching her when she staggers, skirts akimbo. Turning to her daughter, she inclines her head in unmistakable command. "Please assist her, Sempronia."

Sempronia rises to her feet, inclining her head before assisting Claudia to steady Licinia as they leave the room. As Licinia's wails fade into silence, she looks at the man again, gesturing toward the couch. "Rise and be seated." 

A man with a tray materializes from nowhere, waiting for the woman's nod before going to the man as he gets unsteadily to his feet. He waves away the plate but takes the contents of the goblet at a gulp before dropping onto the edge of the couch, and a sharp gesture sends the man with the tray away.

The man on the couch glances toward the doorway that the younger women used. "She is a weak reed to support you in your time of need, Cornelia. You would do well to return her to her father's hand."

"It is her nature," Cornelia answers. "What blame can be attached to her when she is as she was born? She pleased my son--" Her voice checks for a moment before the iron control returns. "And so she pleases me. She has nothing else of him but their child; should I take that from her, too?" 

"Mother and child both, and Claudia Pulchera as well. It might be safer," he says deliberately. "For you."

The dark eyes leave the door to fix on him. "How long until the Senate summons the courage to send a messenger to inform us of its decision?"

"Not long," he answers grimly.

"Then there is no time to waste," she says. "I will need you to arrange escort for me to Rome."

"Cornelia," he says quietly. "Gaius's property is forfeit, as is Licinia Crassa's dowry and the property of all those who followed your son--"

"Licinia is my responsibility," she answers flatly. "As Sempronia is my daughter, so are she and Claudia, and she is mother of the only living heir of the Gracchi. I won't abandon them." Her mouth tightens infinitesimally. "My agents will be informed to attend when the property of my son's friends goes to State auction. The dependents of those that suffered in his service must be cared for. I'll see to that first--"

"Do you not understand?" the man interrupts, getting to his feet. "Three thousand died without trial, their descendants proscribed, and Opimius builds a temple on the Concord in honor of his brave slaughter; no one is safe!"

"Does Rome make war on women?" Cornelia asks, and Dean winces from the edge in her voice.

"Rome _is_ war, _domina_ ," he answers bluntly. "Opimius grows swollen with pride and power, more by the day; thus far, your name has not been added to the lists, but I would not trust in the Senate's mercy. The daughter of Africanus might be overlooked, but not the mother of the Gracchi. The sister perhaps, but the wives and children of Tiberius and Gaius, never."

She doesn't answer for a moment, eyes distant. "The villa at Misenum is mine; I will send them there." He looks startled. "My father was no fool, Publius; my dowry is in my hand for the length of my life and passes to my s--my heirs only at my will upon my death. My husband provided for me to the limits of the _lex Voconia_ , and whatever you may think, Gaius knew the danger of what he embarked upon. He transferred what property he could to me for the sake of his daughter. The State cannot take what it has no right to claim."

He raises a wry eyebrow. "I don't think they care."

"Then they must be reminded," she answers. "That is why I must go."

"Cornelia." Reaching for her hand and he meets the icy gaze without flinching. "The Senate means to teach the People their place; they want no reminders of your sons to remain. The Gracchi are done; there are none who will speak for them."

"There is me." She pulls her hand away and rising to her feet, and the man looks startled; despite the several inch difference in their heights, she seems taller. "And I am not done. Sempronia can oversee the move to Misenum in my absence. Arrange the escort; we leave at dawn." She shakes her head, and the man closes his eyes, nodding. "Now leave me and take your rest as you will. Inform my household that I will not be disturbed."

After a moment, he bows, boots echoing on the mosaic floor as he vanishes out the door. For a long time, Cornelia doesn't move, as expressionless as a statue before slowly, she takes two steps and sinks to the floor as if her legs refused to carry her further, palla sliding from her shoulders and dark skirts pooling around her. One arm pressed tight against her belly, she doubles over, one hand snapping out to brace herself against the floor, and Dean has a single, searing glimpse of her face. Cornelia is silent, but it fills the room, barely broken by the almost inaudible, drowning gasps for breath, grief indistinguishable from physical pain. 

Starting toward her, he stops short, fingers touching cool stone; it's only a picture again, a woman's private agony like an insect trapped in amber, on display for any to see. It's obscene.

"Mater took me to her tomb when I was eight years old," a voice says, and Dean turns to see a woman standing beside him. Despite the light brown hair and smaller build, the dark olive complexion and dark, black-lashed eyes are Cornelia's. Almost as if in deliberate contrast, however, her hair is elaborately arranged, diamond drops hanging from her ears and decorate the heavy gold necklace, bracelets, and rings that sparkle on her fingers. Even the floor-length gown is a more elaborate version of Cornelia's, the long sleeves split from shoulder to wrist and held together with a series of tiny diamond clasps, but the color is like a photo negative in blinding white. "Cornelians aren't burned; alone among Rome's families, their bodies are left intact after death."

Dean opens his mouth and closes it. "Not the question I even knew existed to ask."

"She was the embodiment of what every Roman woman should be," the woman continues, eyes fixed on the fresco. "She bore twelve children, but only three survived to adulthood, and one alone outlived her, and on her husband's death refused all suitors for her hand. Her virtues were numerous: patience, strength, endurance, chastity, fidelity, self-sacrifice, fecundity…the list goes on. She was all of them, some they created wholesale just for her. The ideal Roman wife and mother. Women left offering at her tomb all the time, hoping to gain her virtue by proxy, I suppose." She looks at him, eyes dancing. "I hated her on concept."

Despite himself, Dean bursts into laughter.

"I made up my mind then and there that all she was I would never be," she continues, the ghost of laughter in her voice. "Mater often wondered if she'd birthed a changeling, and I can't in fairness blame her." 

Turning away from the fresco, she frowns, and when he follows her gaze, he sees the walls are lined with scenes, Cornelia in each and every one: from a chubby, sexless infant in arms to a too-solemn girl debating a stunned-looking tutor while an elderly man who resembles her looks on in pride; an adolescent in shades of pink formally offering her hand to a middle aged man in a whitened toga who smiles on her with a pleasure not paternal at all; a young woman instructing her eldest son and daughter, a babe asleep in a cradle nearby; white-faced and impassive in unrelieved black receiving callers at the death of her husband. Not pretty, no: tall and angular, her features are too irregular, but he doubts anyone who met her ever saw anything but the wide brown eyes, sharp intelligence and warm humor both. 

"The past is part of us, though, no help for it," the woman beside him says softly, and Dean turns to look at her. "And it doesn't necessarily have to be our own." Tilting her head, she peers up at him for a moment before extending a small hand. "This is how you do it now, right?"

Rolling his eyes, he takes it and raises his eyebrows; despite the soft, uncallused skin and manicured nails, her grip is firm. "Dean Winchester, and let me guess--I don't get a name from you?"

"I only have the one right now," she says apologetically as she withdraws her hand. "It's complicated, but--"

"Names have power," he says causally and notes her surprise in satisfaction. "Answer to the wrong one--" Crap, Cas didn't actually tell him what happened then. "Bad shit happens."

"If you're not careful, you could end up as someone else entirely," she says seriously, which he assumes is indeed bad shit from her expression. "True names are even worse; to know the name is to have claim to that which acknowledges it as their own. Seems small," she admits. "One person, a ten, a hundred who know your name and thus claim you in it, that's nothing. But thousands? Millions? Billions? Each one with an idea of their own of who you are; it's hard to keep your own when you could be any or all of them."

Dean frantically reviews what she said to see if he missed something (like the part that made sense); he didn't. "What?"

"Well, aren't we an idea to ourselves?" she asks reasonably. "What we think we are? It's hard to see someone else's idea of us and not wonder if they're right."

"A better idea?" He can almost hear Alison's voice: _people are so much better than they think they are._ People are people, and sometimes they're goddamn idiots about it. "Worse."

"Worse," she agrees, blowing out an annoyed breath. "Also, if they don't know your name--"

"They can't find you."

She looks at him sharply, and for a moment, he sees something in the brown eyes; a glimpse of golden light falling over the banks of a wide river, a half-completed boat the size of a yacht being built by dozens of hazy figures, others drawing up in lines at the shores, kilted and armored in silver steel, eyes fixed on something across the river he can't quite see through an uneasy mist

"Or even know you exist," she agrees, staring up at him intently and he's jerked back into the present. "You're much taller than I expected."

Right. "Okay?"

"Just impressed," she explains. "That's rare in my experience."

Impressed: sure, it's for his height, but it's not like it happens enough (read: ever) that he won't take what he can get. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," she says with a mischievous smile before looking around the room, taking in the pictures spreading across the walls. "It's here somewhere, but where...."

"What?" he asks, trying to make out the subject of each, but the pictures are blurred, as if seen through thick glass, impossible to resolve.

"If I knew that," the woman answers wryly, "this would be much easier. My time is limited, and she lived a very long life."

Every time he looks, there are more pictures, though the walls don't get any bigger or the pictures smaller. Yeah, this might take a while. "You need help?" After several long moments of silence, he looks at her and sees her staring at him, head tilted. "What?"

"You mean that," she states, mouth twitching. "I apologize; I suppose you really do have to experience it to believe it."

In the back of his mind, Dean's vaguely aware something weird is going on, but he can't get over how many pictures there are and they're not stopping yet, fitting themselves between others in some logic that's beyond him. This could take forever, literally. "Yeah, of course I mean it."

"I may take you up on that," she says, grinning at him before pointing out a door against the opposite wall between two of the pictures. That wasn't there before. "You can use that one. And don't forget your coat; you dropped it by the front desk earlier and they hung it up for you."

"Thanks," he answers, but hesitates as he reaches for the handle, eyeing the pictures. "You're sure?"

"Yes," she says, smiling at him, and he opens the door into the empty front room--lobby? Do militias have lobbies?

At the front desk, Jeremy (still looking bored) tries to straighten in a semblance of attention. "Dean. You need anything?"

"I’m good," he assures him, starting toward the front door before stopping short and turning back around. "Hey, where'd they hang up my coat?"

* * *

Crowley pauses to take in his expression before taking a sip.

"Don't take it so personally," he continues in mocking sympathy. "Yes, your charge, all of that, but he couldn't do it and proved it by dying before he could get the job done even with the Colt. The new version had to be protected somehow when he arrived, at least until you could get him up to snuff."

This must be what humans mean when they speak of living their worst nightmare.

"Not that I have any intention of speaking out of school," he hears Crowley say over the roar in his ears. "Ask me what you like: all I know is yours. It certainly took you long enough to figure it out."

It takes two tries for Castiel to manage to speak. "How was he brought here?"

"That, I don't know. Double blind contract, you see. Wouldn't know who or how even if I wanted to." His smile widens. "What? Humans and angels made a mess of the Apocalypse; someone had to step up. We were all that was left to get the job done."

" _Demons_ made a contract to stop Lucifer?"

"So I assume, but there's no way to find out who else signed even if I wanted to. Need to know information only, and the only thing I need to know is my part."

"A double blind contract," Castiel says slowly. "You don't know who you signed with, who holds it now, who else signed, or even what would be asked of you in the terms until they need to be fulfilled, _and_ you're restricted from even trying to find out or remember if you do?"

"Bit more complicated than that," Crowley demurs. "But in essence, yes. I do my part, everyone does theirs--whoever and whatever that might be--and the contract is satisfied once Lucifer is caged or dead while Dean Winchester is still alive and well on planet Earth." 

And he once thought that he and Dean made terrible contracts. "And you _signed it_?"

"Of course, considering the alternative." Crowley frowns in his half-empty glass before returning his attention to Castiel, sullen red flickering in his eyes. "I think you can guess why."

He can; even claiming the Throne of Hell wouldn't justify this risk. "Lucifer wants to purge Hell as well as Earth."

"Just so. Not that your Brothers are terribly enthusiastic about the idea, but all of them together can't equal him, even if they were capable of thinking of rebellion. Angels," he adds, making a moue of distaste, and to his surprise, Castiel finds himself echoing it. "What can do you? Besides, they know he won't kill every angel left in Creation; at least one of them will have to survive to keep him company, you know. Prostrate themselves beholding his glory, whatever melodramatic archangels go in for these days." His expression darkens. "Bad enough that: Hell is vast and Lucifer's grasp of its geography is weak at best; we know how to survive in places there even an archangel would hesitate to tread. Reality, though: that's a different story altogether. Unmaking all of Creation: no one wants that. Except apparently the only one who can pull that off."

"That…" Castiel belatedly gulps the remainder of his coffee before setting the cup aside. "That happened after Dean arrived here again."

"Confirmation that I made the right decision, then." Crossing his legs, one foot balancing neatly on his knee, he shrugs. "The terms are unusual, I grant you, but double blind has its advantages. What I don't know--what I _can't_ know--can't be told, now can it? That goes for everyone who signed."

"Except whoever holds the contract," he answers incredulously. "I assume they know there's a penalty for breaking it, but--"

"You would make a terrible Crossroads demon," Crowley observes. "Though at this moment, you make a much worse angel, former or not. This is contract, Castiel; making the terms isn't something you trust to any but a professional, and it doesn't come more professional than the Crossroads. I'm not sure what offends me more; the very idea you'd think I'd sign with an amateur, or I'd sign without knowing all the terms first, no matter what the contract specified I would remember afterward."

He should have guessed. "You _wrote_ the terms."

"I'm the King of the Crossroads. I wouldn't sign anything I didn't write myself." He sighs noisily, resting his head on one hand. "I'm not new at this. The contract is fulfilled only when Lucifer is caged or dead while Dean Winchester is still alive and well on earth; there's no limit on how long it takes for that to happen."

"You're all bound to this contract _indefinitely_?" Death, in this case, wouldn't necessarily be a dealbreaker, and the sheer number of definitions 'dead' can encompass is staggering enough; that this might encompass all of them is--he supposes 'unusual' would usually go here, but he's not sure there's a word for this.

"Didn't put in a clause for that," Crowley says thoughtfully. "Perhaps I forgot."

Castiel stares at him, at a loss for words.

"End of reality, that might break it," he continues, turning his glass and watching the wine gleam, the flickering light of the chandelier picking out hints of ruby and vermilion with each rotation. "Certainly nothing less. This is our last chance, Castiel. This gets done, I made sure of it. I don't need to remember the terms to know how I wrote it."

Against his own better judgment, he's unwillingly impressed. He doubts anyone--even Crowley--could write an unbreakable contract, but it might be far, far easier to fulfill the terms--and more pleasant--than attempting to find a way out of it. Assuming anyone was so foolish as to actually desire the continuance of Lucifer's ascension and guarantee of their own (probably horrific, even by the standards of Hell) death.

"I assume regaining the memory of who you wrote it for as well as the unexpunged details of the contract were part of the terms."

Crowley grins at him, pleased. "In big, bold letters, even. I must admit, Apocalypse and end of all things aside, finding out the whole is very high on my list of reasons I'm hoping it works out. Nothing like this has ever been attempted before in all time, and trust me on this one, I'd know." He gives Castiel sidelong glance. "For that matter, so would you."

"No," he confirms obediently, and Crowley stretches in his chair, satisfied as an overly indulged cat. "It's new." There seems to be a lot of that going around.

"That it is." Crowley waves a hand. "Anything else?"

"You said that Dean's presence here--alive at the time of Lucifer's caging or death--is one of the terms. Does that mean he'll be sent home when the contract is fulfilled?"

"Homesick, is he?" Crowley makes a tut-tut sound--Castiel hadn't realized that was a real thing that people, or demons, did--before taking another lazy drink. "I couldn't tell you. Whoever brought him here may know that part of the terms, along with how they managed it at all."

"That does lead to the question of who has that kind of power." Crowley nods agreeably. "Since, unless I miss my guess, no one does, and that's just to start. Provided whoever arranged this didn't somehow get Lucifer to sign the contract as well, which strangely enough, isn't the least likely possibility at the moment."

"Not impossible," Crowley allows. "Wouldn't put it past him to do it in a fit of spite against--who knows what could have offended him this time, spacetime itself? I can't tell you, though. Anything else?"

"The Church where a group of demons introduced a new kind of human sacrifice two and a half years ago?"

Crowley blinks, looking genuinely confused. "No, nothing there."

"Six of yours were trying to finish it in Ichabod two weeks ago with the help of several human helpers."

"Ah, yes, I do remember something about that. Only two reported back, however." Crowley peers at him, smiling with unmistakable approval. "I wasn't particularly surprised when I found out the reason: Castiel his very self and a tiny band of freedom fighters show up just in time to fight six demons and a small army of Croatoans and leave nothing alive when they leave. Not that I'd expect anything less from Chitaqua; they were trained by you, after all."

"I killed only two; another member of Chitaqua killed one as well," Castiel says evenly. "Dean took care of the last one himself."

Crowley starts to answer before hesitating, frowning at him. "Say again?"

"Dean killed one of them," Castiel says. "Along with greater than ten Croats in a confined space filled with terribly vulnerable children."

Crowley straightens. "He was there?"

"He was there," Castiel confirms. "Dean Winchester, the only person who can stop the Apocalypse and imported here for that specific purpose, was the only armed adult available to protect a daycare of children, among them the ones your demon wanted, and did I mention there were _Croats_?" He pauses for a moment of bitter satisfaction as the color drains from Crowley's face. "Dean assured me that the demon didn't recognize him, and that was on the edge of possible only when we thought it _wasn't_ part of a plan that requires he remain alive."

"Then I owe you both thanks for disposing of them for me," Crowley says softly, eyes flickering red before he makes a visible effort to relax. "If it helps, I disposed of the other two when they returned, of course. Castiel, you must understand that certain precautions must be taken. My demons are bound to me, but they aren't under contract. I couldn't risk sending anyone to earth who might recognize him, not after all the trouble we took to keep Kansas incommunicado."

"One recognized me, however. Oddly enough, it wasn't my name but visual confirmation on seeing my face."

"Fallen angel?" Crowley snorts into his glass. "Between your Brothers pouting over you remaining behind--and in a human form at that--and your dramatics over the last few years, you are something of a popular topic of conversation."

"My name, Crowley." He deliberately didn't consider this, but it's possible. "Are my Brothers trying to unmake my name?"

"Yes, several times over the last two years," he answers. "It's failed, every time faster than the time before, if that tells you anything; it doesn't me, but it is amusing to see their utter bafflement. Hell is the only place that will even pretend to respond to their efforts now, and as I said, it doesn't take. I don't see the point myself; they can't erase you from any plane of existence at this late date, and they don't even have the Host to formally disavow you." He shakes his head at the folly of angels, which Castiel (much relieved) can't help but agree. "Why didn't they, by the way? Surely on their way out the door they could have taken the time to do so."

"So I'm a source of gossip in Hell?"

"It's not as if there's much in Hell that's new." Crowley grins at him conspiratorially. "I must admit, I always liked you for the effect you have on your Brothers It's rare to see them so upset, and you do it with so little effort."

"I live to provide them irritation." Castiel catches himself before he joins in Crowley's low laugh, recalling himself to the subject. "How long do you think Dean's presence can be hidden here?"

"It should have ended with the barrier falling, but it seems an extension is needed," Crowley answers. "What have you been about anyway--you've had almost five months with him. You may hate everything, but Dean Winchester--any of them--that gets your attention. You'd burn the world to keep him safe just on principle, and the only safety for him here is to be ready for this, and apparently, he's not. We can only do so much; take some responsibility for your charge, Castiel."

Castiel's amusement fades. Not prophecy, fate, or the Host's greatest efforts, could make Dean do what he didn't want to do; it seems the art of manipulation truly is best practiced by demons after all.

Also, someone is watching them, and doing a not entirely inadequate job at it. That bears panic at a more convenient time. "What makes you think he's not ready?"

"Not the one who made that decision," Crowley answers, sitting back. "Again--"

"You don't know." He's already very tired of that answer. "You know what's happening in Ichabod now, I assume."

"Lucifer's sulk has to end sometime, or so I assume," Crowley says. "Eventually, he's going to come back to complete his conquest and realize the reset button has been pressed on the Apocalypse. The barrier is the only way to hide Dean's existence as well as protect him until he can protect himself." 

"At the cost of two thousand human lives."

"More than that, but it'd be cheap at ten times the price," Crowley tells him. "You are--or were--an angel, Castiel; don't pretend a horror you don't feel. You've killed more for far less reason."

"So you're aware of what is being used to accomplish it?"

"I haven't seen it myself, if that is what you're asking," Crowley answers, and that flicker again: it must chafe to have such limits placed on his knowledge. "Quite new, I understand."

"You were human once--"

Crowley's eyes narrow. "Careful, Castiel."

"I don't expect you to sympathize with your former species, so I'll put this in terms that you'll understand. I saw the whole of it. I remember it. And I can _read it_. There's no limit on how many can be used in a single sacrifice."

"So I understand," Crowley agrees with fading hostility. "The design seems to prize quantity over quality."

"It was designed to that purpose. The only limitation is practical: the size." Crowley's expression remains unchanged, but even from his chair, Castiel can see him swallow. "A town? A state? A country, perhaps, might be difficult, but considering the amount of power that can be gained, there's no reason not to try. Drawn once and closed, it's done; all that's left to do is kill those who entered it before was closed. Humanity and Lucifer have been engaged in competition for humanity's destruction for eons; I don't think adding demons as another competitor will increase their chances for survival."

"You make it sound more tempting with every word," Crowley remarks, amusement returning. "What's to stop me from using it myself?"

"Other than the continuance of humanity is how you acquired that body you wear, not to mention an endless supply of future minions? As well as the entire point of being a Crossroad demon?" Crowley looks ostentatiously unconvinced. "Should my Brothers discover it, they'll purge Hell themselves to assure it's never used again, especially since they can't use it--yes, that part surprised me as well--but it occurs to me that there's a more personally gratifying option."

"You do like personal gratification, or so I've heard," Crowley murmurs. "Made something of a lifestyle of it."

"'I withhold my heart not from any joy'," he quotes. "With the potential of so much power at stake, you'll all be far too busy killing each other to get it or stop someone else from using it to ever get around to doing anything with it and purge yourselves. In which case, the wisest course is to offer it to every demon I know, make popcorn, and see which one comes first."

"You 'pop' popcorn," Crowley corrects him absently. Castiel files that away for future reference; knowledge is never wasted, after all. "You think that's possible?"

"It's not simply possible; it's inevitable," he answers. "You're King of the Crossroads; temptation isn't a mystery to you. Which you know perfectly well, so I have no idea why you're baiting me on what you worked out as soon as you found out about its existence. It's as much a threat to you as to my Brothers. Especially," he adds deliberately, "to whoever might sit on the Throne of Hell once Lucifer is defeated."

"I was merely exploring hypotheticals," Crowley admits, raising his eyebrows in tacit acknowledgement. "You do realize I can't do anything about it being used to remake the barrier? That it's happening is all I know."

"When your contract is fulfilled, you'll know both who held it and who signed it as well as the terms," he replies. "Give me the names of those involved in this aspect and I'll do the rest. Provided I survive that long, of course. And we win."

"Of course," Crowley agrees smoothly. "If I had information like that, there'd be a price."

Sometimes, it feels like he's been propositioned by everyone and everything _but_ a genuine Crossroads demon (he doesn't think anything so far counts today, as he's fairly certain that Crowley's been desperate to tell someone about his brilliance, even if he can't remember it). Now would be an excellent time to add to his collection. Especially the King: it's a pity he can't ever tell Dean about it. From Dean's cryptic comments before they parted today, he has the feeling Dean wouldn't understand. 

Not that he's stupid enough to actually make contract, of course, but no reason not to at least enjoy the experience. "What would be your terms?"

Crowley makes an effort to look thoughtful, as if he's considering anything but the most obvious option. "You, true form, soul, whole and entire. Payable in fulfillment of winning the Apocalypse, of course. Lucifer's ban won't be enforceable from the Cage, even should he survive, and I'll sit on the Throne of Hell, so it will be my choice whether it should be enforced." 

"You're that confident you'll ascend to the Throne?"

"Yes, and I hope you appreciate the honor being bestowed upon you."

"To be tortured for eternity by the King of Hell himself," Castiel muses. "However will I bear the anticipation?"

"Please, like I'd go through this much trouble simply for fodder for the rack." He raises his eyebrows suggestively. "Being in Hell would be an advantage in this case; that's where you'll probably find every name on the contract. Agree now, and I'll throw in this: I'll help you to do it whether or not I'm sitting on the Throne by that time."

Castiel opens his mouth to ask if he could also be supplied with regular shipments of coffee when he realizes that his mind is droning a quiet negation, has been, hardly even a feeling but now growing stronger. When he tries again, it abruptly spikes in intensity, like the low hum of electrical wires, pushing against his skull insistently as if to tell him how to answer because there's not another one.

"Castiel?" Crowley asks, voice muffled beneath the slowly growing negation; with a start, Castiel tries to think of negation's opposite and utterly, utterly fails. 

"I can't."

"You can't?" Crowley looks as surprised as he feels. "You mean you won't."

Actually, no; he _can't_ , not even in mockery. That's--new. 

"Could we delay this conversation for another time?" He examines the limitations; the verbal delay causes a dark, unhappy buzzing he can feel vibrating against the back of his ears, but the pressure eases incrementally. "Otherwise, the answer is no."

It stops, gone as if he'd imagined the entire thing. "No, not at this time."

"You might want to….." Crowley looks down at his glass, swirling the contents before starting to raise it and stopping, abruptly setting it on the table beside him. Legs crossed, he turns his attention back to Castiel with a serious expression on his face. "You're in the contract."

* * *

Knocking on the door perfunctorily, Dean pokes his head inside Alison's office. "Hey, you…have someone in here." And it would be Lourdes, of course. Noak's mayor and probably not his biggest fan at the moment. 

"How observant of you," Alison says, rolling her eyes. "Come in, Dean, and close the door. In theory, I'm unavailable and I'd like to keep it that way."

He really wants to say no, but he's not gonna flee before the Alliance mayors. "Lourdes," he says, nodding and trying not to blink at the long, dark yellow sweater, intricately embroidered, and brown skirt nearly reaching the floor, cut up one side to reveal elegant boots without even water stains. Tall and thin, dark skin flawless, hair in a complicated knot of braids at the back of her neck, she looks like she's about to go to a really nice party and not an Alliance meeting in a room that's missing key parts of its (okay, hideous) tile floor. A party for supermodels or something: who looks that good naturally? "How's it going?"

"Good, thank you," she says, adding just enough ice to remind him she's just being polite. 

"Does the meeting have a dress code or something?" he asks before he thinks better of it and gets twin glares when actually, he was being serious (mostly). "Just saying, should I tell Vera and Joe….you look nice."

Alison shuts her eyes with a pained look, and wow, he didn't realize Lourdes could be less impressed with him, but look at that. "Thank you." Her voice softens in genuine concern as she asks, "How is Castiel? Has he recovered from the events yesterday?"

"Good." Dean tries not to wince. "He's okay, thanks. I'll tell him you asked."

She nods, turning toward Alison and smiling. "I'll see you at the meeting."

"Tell Claudia to go ahead and start without me," Alison says, and they exchange a look he really hates before Lourdes passes him on her way out, closing the door with a deliberate finality like she's washing her hands of him. Or he could be reading into it. 

Pushing back from the desk, Alison sighs, eyeing him. "Tell me you weren't trying to be charming."

"Shut up." Dropping into the chair across the desk, he rubs his face tiredly. "They all hate me, don't they?"

"I’m sure they'll cut you some slack for the entire 'boyfriend attacked in the mess' thing," she says encouragingly. In contrast to Lourdes' careless elegance, Alison has her hair bundled up with a pencil stuck through it and has added a worn, hideously green plaid flannel on top of the even more hideous red one she wore earlier today, which argues she's maybe colorblind because even Dean knows that's not recommended as a winter look for anyone, ever. With the glasses--which have been bent at least a couple of times since he first met her and now stay on her face by the grace of God (and he means that; there's no other explanation)--the Executive Secretary to the Apocalypse is out in full force today. "When the memory of the meeting's faded a little."

"Like you wouldn't have thrown a fit if it were Teresa," he says sullenly, knowing he sounds six years old and not caring.

"Which is why they'll let it go," she says, raising an eyebrow. "Lourdes' sister Wendy is a witch and her husband is doing his apprenticeship with her, and she and I aren't the only people in that meeting who had personal reason to not like it. Just saying, you're scary."

"I'm not."

She rolls her eyes before focusing on him abruptly. "Where's Cas?"

Yeah, that's what he thought. "You stalking him?" She raises her eyebrows. "You know what I mean!"

"I’m a psychic," she says succinctly, leaning her chin on one hand. "When he's in town, I can't avoid knowing about it, whether I'm blocking everyone or not. He's special like that."

Right, and he gets that (mostly). "But not like this." Then, because he can be fair, "This about the mess?"

"That didn't help." Scowling, she leans back in her chair, regarding him over the width of the desk, and Dean fails to maintain even fake hostility in the face of her genuine worry. Cas wasn't wrong about Dean's biases here (though Cyn isn't what he'd call case in point; she's got issues and a team leader for an ex, for fuck's sake), but he can think of much worse ways to judge people than how they treat Cas, and he doesn't mean just not having the five percent reaction (with new and improved homicidal tendencies attached). "That shouldn't have happened, Dean."

"Alison--"

"But if it had to," she continues relentlessly, "I should have known about it when it happened, not after the fact. What's the point of being a psychic if I can't even tell when my friends are being mobbed by crazy people?"

She's kind of got him there. "He's checking the cow trails or something for Chitaqua," Dean tells her and sees her relax. "In case they're stuck in the snow or being chased by cows, no idea." Alison winces. "Seriously?"

"You ever been chased by a cow?" He shakes his head. "Don't mock it until you're jumping fences trying to get back to the jeep at an Olympic-qualifying time."

He wouldn't have stopped the laughter even if he could have (which he couldn't), which is why he's bent over and gasping breathlessly under Alison's helpless glare. With an effort, he manages to straighten, but luckily (Alison looks really unhappy with him) the door opens abruptly before she finishes opening her mouth.

"Alison?" Tony says hopefully, glancing at Dean briefly and not commenting (though his mouth twitches). "You have a minute?"

Alison, he's pretty sure, is counting to ten. "Sure," she says, as Tony closes the door, her expression smoothing into surprise as he takes the chair beside Dean. "What's up? Got the thing with the plant--doing its thing?"

"Yes," Tony says, tossing a folder on the desk and resting his ankle on the knee of his other leg as he sits back. "Mostly."

Alison checks her paging through the folder (with a blank look). "What? Not enough power?"

"Power isn't a problem," he assures her. "That plant was meant to run the entire county with change to spare; it's old, but it's solid. The problem is…." He visibly pauses, probably realizing the limits of his audience. "Okay put it this way: power plants are delicate flowers and too much power is as much a problem as too little, especially when it comes to load."

"How much or little everyone is using at any given time," Alison says confidently but he doesn't miss her watching Tony and trying not to look relieved when he nods. "Because--it...the amount has to stay stable and not--jump up and down or something?"

Tony thinks about it. "Close enough. We got Third through Fifth up okay because I had time to test it and adjust for the load, but that was supposed to be temporary. No way can I just bring up Sixth, Seventh, and Baltimore and hope for the best; best in this case is blowing out every fuse we got. For that matter, we're having one hell of a time keeping it up with the current load distribution; it's not gonna last much longer."

"Right," Alison says, and it's only the way she stills that he can tell she's bracing herself, already mentally trying to work out how to fit (much) greater than twenty thousand people on possibly three streets. "So--" 

"I have crews getting ready now," Tony says. "I'm going to bring the grid down."

Alison straightens so fast Dean's back aches, but that also may be because he did the same thing. "What?"

"When it's down, I'm going to have crews repairing the connections to the grid from Sixth, Seventh, and Baltimore and check and recheck all the rest," he continues, clasping his hands over his flannel-covered belly. Despite the serious expression, Dean gets the feeling he's kind of enjoying this. "This is where you come in; I need you to get the generators to the priority areas and hooked up, then give the order to have everyone unplug everything and keep it unplugged until I bring the grid back up."

Alison's eyes fix on a point in the middle distance. "All nine streets?"

"Every goddamn building that isn't marked red," he confirms. "We don't have time to go out and cut each building out individually, so the only ones we're going to do are the ones we know can't be used and can't even risk going in to check for leftover lamps or someone's two year old cellphone still stuck in the wall. For the rest--every room has to be checked, basement to attic and make sure the central heat or whatever is turned off. We'll throw the breakers on every building not in use, but we can't count on that working across the board."

"Or we risk blowing out the grid," Alison says, focusing on Tony. "I remember that speech."

"It'll take about an hour to bring it all the way down," Tony says. "We'll reboot the system and watch the dials as we bring it up street by street. That way, something blows, it won't take out the entire grid and we can fix it and start over. Best case scenario, from down to up, four hours."

"Worst case?"

Tony makes a face. "Neither Walter nor I were full time electrical engineers in a past life, and everything we know we learned on the job. We did a lot of workarounds to bring it up and keep it up, and some of them I still don't know why they work, only that they do. So--"

"I mean, are we going to blow up?" she clarifies. "Giant Ichabod-shaped fireball, anything like that?"

Tony cocks his head, thinking carefully. "May blow out the grid and live the rest of our short lives like our cavepeople ancestors, but no. Ichabod _definitely_ won't blow up."

"Oh, thank God," she says, falling back in her chair. "No problem then. How long do you need before you start?"

"The storm's hitting at midnight, but it'll still take a couple of hours to get too shitty to work," he says, getting to his feet. "Ten is the latest I want to risk, and earlier is better. I gotta get back: still got a lot of prep to finish up. You need me, or…?"

"We'll be ready," Alison says, smiling at him. "Pick up a couple of meals from the mess for you and Walter before you go in case you get stuck out there, okay? And get a walky-talky from the patrol office."

"Just give me a mind-poke if you're worried," Tony advises her, circling the desk and squeezing her shoulder before starting for the door. "See you later, Dean."

"Yeah," he says belatedly, but the door's already closing. Turning toward Alison, he sees her looking into the middle distance again, customary frown in place. "Alison?"

After a long moment, she seems to drag herself back into the room, blinking at him slowly. "Have you ever," she starts, "had a terrible idea, and the more you thought about it, the worse it was, but--"

"Just makes you want to do it more," Dean finishes for her, sighing. "Yep."

"I want to dissolve the perimeter line; let everyone inside who can pass the wards. We can't control it much longer, may as well start what's going to happen anyway on our own terms."

Dean jerks himself upright: holy _shit_. "What?"

"And call in the patrols," she continues, warming to theme. "All of them. Put everyone to finishing relay setup, get the generators to the infirmary, the daycare, the mess, and--oh, the old YMCA on Fifth that Amanda's been working on, that'll work, it's huge. We can use that as a warming station. Seal up the buildings as best we can; not a lot are weatherproofed, but four hours should be fine--let's say six, lying for a good cause never hurt anyone, avoid panic if Tony and Walter are delayed."

"You'll be unprotected," Dean says, even knowing she knows that. The barrier is coming down, fuck knows what's waiting for just that; if there was ever a time to double or triple the people on perimeter, this would be the time.

"Not much they can do in a blizzard anyway," she answers practically. "Abominable snowman wants attention, he's gonna have to wait in line. I need to--fuck my life, that goddamn meeting--"

"Started what, twenty minutes ago? I was going to ask if you were going," he lies (at least the asking her part), which earns him the ghost of a glare, but he can't really get over how terrible this idea is--God, so terrible--but he likes it. Even better, it might just work. "Tell Claudia to handle it; you can tell her what they need to do so she can tell them, save some time."

"Right." She gets to her feet, scowling at nothing, and he swallows back the comment she's not careful, her face is gonna freeze like that. "Dean--crap, I didn't even ask what you needed. Can it wait?"

"No," he answers and her face falls. "What are your orders?"

Alison's expression dissolves into bewilderment. "What?"

"I got some free time," he drawls at her baffled expression. "What do you want me to do? Anytime you're ready."

"You." He widens his eyes and nods exaggeratedly; sure, it's an emergency, but sarcasm is an all-occasion kind of thing. "Happen to have any ideas?"

"Not yet," he admits, getting to his feet as she retrieves her coat; the idea right now is make sure Alison isn't wandering around town alone with everyone else too far away to help if anything goes wrong. "I'll get some, though. Anytime now."

"You're with me," she says, rolling her eyes as on her way to the door. "First stop: Volunteer Services to warn them what's gonna hit them when the perimeter line is dissolved, then city services for the generators, then patrol. Try and keep up."

Dean snorts, grabbing his coat from the back of his chair. "No problem."

* * *

"Me." Crowley nods shortly. "By _name_?"

"True name, all your known names," Castiel stills, and Crowley smiles in satisfaction, "ranks, positions within the hierarchy--interesting reading there--and the whole confirmed by bloody sigil therefore true." He looks at Castiel with something not unlike admiration. "Took considerable time to get through it all, and even I didn't know most of it, and that's the parts I _could_ read. You've been very busy for an angel from the ranks, Castiel; your work ethic is to be lauded, though obviously, your Brothers didn't appreciate it." He tilts his head, eyes boring into Castiel. "Do you even know how many times the Host--"

"When I Fell, my memory became mine by natural right," he interrupts. "No one else in existence should know more than I did before that moment, however, and I certainly didn't sign it!"

For a horrified moment, he thinks of the church. Even at his least optimistic (and most drunk, stoned, or high) he doesn't think he'd sign a double-blind contract with anyone in Hell and erase his own memory with divine or demonic assistance as part of the terms. Before he can begin to panic, he remembers what Crowley said: the barrier had to be replaced because they'd expected Dean to be ready and he apparently failed to meet their expectations. Never in his entire existence has he been so grateful for his own incompetence; surely if he was contracted for this, he would have done a better job of it. For that matter, if they wanted someone competent, he certainly wouldn't have been anyone's first choice.

"No, nothing like that. It was someone covering all their bases very thoroughly when it comes to you." Crowley hesitates, looking uncharacteristically indecisive before he settles himself, brown eyes meeting his. "You were put up in auction."

"Auction?" Of all the things he'd expected to hear--and that's a very long list--that wasn't anywhere on it. "In _Hell _?"__

"Come one, come all," he confirms. "Place your bids, take your chances, pick up your brand new soul or equivalent on the way out. Or the guarantee of getting it, in any case."

"Not that I object any more than anyone faced with eternal suffering, but…." He searches Crowley's face for a sign of deceit. "Lucifer's proclamation would be enforced by Hell itself."

"Serendipitously enough, it happened before Lucifer set the ban. Auction is contract; can't change that after the fact."

"How unbelievably fortunate that was," he answers blankly. "There's also the small matter that I'm still alive and also not in Hell. Even souls bought in contract don't go to auction until payment comes due."

"Irregular, I'll grant you," Crowley admits. "Perfectly legal, however; it's been done before, if you remember."

"When Dean made contract, I remember." He never truly believed there was any other possibility for him once his mortal life was ended; oblivion was a pleasant fantasy, but it was only that. Falling meant damnation without hope of forgiveness, even if it were possible for him to regret it, and he long ago accepted that his existence would never be anything but suffering until the end of time in the bowels of Hell at the hands of his former Brothers. He's not certain demons are an improvement, but at least his suffering will offer endless variety in how it's inflicted.

Speaking of that, "How were my Brothers brought to agree…." Crowley looks dramatically remorseful. "They didn't know. _How_?"

"It wasn't a terribly inspiring lot up for grabs at the time," he explains, reaching for his wine glass again and tilting it toward him encouragingly. Glancing at the table beside him, Castiel sees his mug has been refilled and picks it up to take a long drink; it's a pity he can't risk asking for something stronger. "I suppose they didn't feel like showing up that day. Odd, that."

"Serendipitous indeed." While he has no desire to spend infinity in unspeakable agony on the rack instead of being the prime entertainment for his Brothers' lack of imagination, there's a certain sense of satisfaction in his Brothers discovering that demons had been able to claim him before they could. Pride can be so inconvenient: force him to submit, torture him, even destroy him, all quite in order, kept in the family and far from the vermin of Hell they believe they rule; allow a Brother, even Fallen, to be claimed and tortured on the rack before the eyes of common demons, never. If they were capable of apoplexy, it would occur _en masse_ ; he almost wishes he could see their faces when they find out. "They won't like that."

"Once it's done, too late, so sorry, here's a lovely door for you to see yourself out." Crowley matches Castiel's smile. "Your Brothers can stamp their feet all they want; if they wanted you, they should have been there to claim you." He takes a long drink, looking pleased with himself. "As I said, irregular but quite legal. Payment not due until arrival, of course. Try not to die anytime soon, Castiel. You are a very expensive pet."

And he thought this couldn't get more surreal. "You."

Crowley smiles, spreading his arms wide. "Me."

"No one's ever broken an angel on the rack of Hell."

"No one's ever put one on the rack to try. It'd be interesting to see what would rise, wouldn't it?" Crowley chuckles softly, as if he's hearing Castiel's screams already. "Besides, do you even qualify as an angel anymore?"

"Fascinating as that question is, it doesn't matter. When my Brothers discover I'm in Hell, they'll take the necessary steps to claim me, which would be, in case you've forgotten, killing you and possibly purge Crossroads altogether." 

Crowley scowls. "I know that, thank you very much. Wouldn't be enjoyable for either of us--well, you less than me, of course."

"I can think of several ways to help with that," he offers politely. "Would you like a list? Alphabetical or categorical?"

Crowley's expression sours further. "I can already see this will be lovely. Don't fancy you as my only company, either, but I suppose that's still better than none at all."

"Your only--" Crowley slumps further, eyes fixed despondently on the wall behind him. "What was the price?"

"Going rate for one Fallen angel, slightly used, very mortal? Crossroads, whole and entire. The bidding was ridiculous; once in an infinity opportunity, no one wanted to miss it. Except your Brothers, of course: pity, that." Crowley's expression sours further when Castiel bursts into laughter. "Highest price on a single soul--or what passes for that where you're concerned--since Dean Winchester went on the block, and that cost Alistair everything but the Pit itself."

"I almost wish I could've been there," he answers honestly. "Did you leave with your pants or did--"

"I'm going to invent all new ways to use the rack just for you," Crowley interrupts venomously, finishing his glass in a gulp. "Stuff those wings of yours and hang them on my wall."

"I'm flattered, of course. If you find them, do tell me where they were. I've wondered about that myself."

"This is why Alistair died without an heir, you know," Crowley continues morosely, finishing off his glass in a single gulp. "Should have known better: all that effort he put into Dean and he couldn't even keep him after. Don't let it go to your head. It was in the contract. Had to win it, any way I could."

"You don't know why?"

"Not even a hint." The red-glazed eyes focus on him, and Castiel stills, amusement fading. "Must be a reason I agreed to it, however," he continues cryptically. "The rack's only a tool; there are other ways, and I know them all. Depends on how long I get to keep you."

Carefully, Castiel sets the mug aside before he drops it, hands dropping to the arms of the chair to hide the tremor; suddenly, this starts to make sense. "You're buying me for someone else."

"Buyer has first claim to service," he says almost absently, focus intensifying; it feels like oil slicking every inch of his skin. "I get that much, before and after the rack--"

"There won't be an after."

"--but no touching allowed. I'm not even allowed to try." His expression darkens, mouth curving in a bitter smile. "No better way to show me my place, I suppose. The only reason I was given the job was that I was the only one who could afford to outbid every demon in Hell."

"If you give your claim to someone else before my Brothers find out…" He trails off, startled at the impulse.

Crowley raises an eyebrow. "They'll kill me for the presumption of claiming you at all. They'll have to hurry, though; when I step down, most of Hell will be after me, and they'll have my own former demons helping them find me." Shaking himself, he straightens, reaching for his now-full glass and taking a drink. "I might need to call on your service then. If it wouldn't be too much trouble."

He doesn't point out it won't be optional, and not just because he'll be bound to Crowley. It won't be new to be hunted; in Heaven and on earth, there's no reason it shouldn't continue in Hell. All he needs is Limbo and Purgatory to have a complete set.

"Why did you sign it?" Crowley doesn't answer. "I understand wishing to avoid a purge of Hell and earth, but not when it's probable you won't survive to enjoy it."

"Tell me something I don't know!" he snaps before taking a breath, expression smoothing over. Straightening in his seat, the urbane smile returns. "However, I did write the contract before I signed it. I apparently knew what I was doing when I did it."

"You're sure you're the only one that decided the terms?"

Crowley's smile changes, curving into something more genuine as he relaxes into his chair. "You're worried about me? Really?"

"Since I'm apparently intimately involved in your fate after my death, all things are possible." Crowley tips his head in acknowledgement. Reaching for his own cup, he stops himself, startled to realize he almost forgot why he was here in the first place. "About the barrier--"

"We're on that again?" Crowley complains. "Have another cup. What do you think of the coffee?"

"I'd like a pound or two if you have it. Later," he says firmly as Crowley opens his mouth to offer terms. "How long--"

"Why does it matter? Now that you know, you can take the proper precautions. Chitaqua's wards are well-nigh unbreakable--how did you do that, anyway? As a demon, I take offense at their existence, of course, but the entertainment value of Lucifer's reaction pays for all."

"We're in Ichabod," he answers, bewildered. "I--"

"I meant to ask about that," Crowley interrupts. "What are you doing there now? I'd get home, no time to waste."

Castiel stares at him in growing alarm. "We can't leave."

"Of course you can. Get in your little SUV, use this new invention they call 'roads'…."

"We _can't_ leave," he snaps. "Can't, unable to do so, incapable without the power of teleportation or flight, neither of which I have access to at this time. The roads are impassable due to the probability that the entire state of _Kansas_ is heading to Ichabod as we speak." 

Crowley stills. "What?"

"Those coming to Ichabod outnumber us by several orders of magnitude, so every road in is filled, and while the recent blizzard makes extended foot travel questionable, they're certainly trying." Finally, Crowley seems to understand. "Even if the roads were passable, our vehicles…" He pauses, trying to remember how Amanda put it. "Disney World. The parking lot, but without the colored lines…."

"Bloody Hell, I've seen it." It's the worst possible time to wonder what the King of Crossroad demons was doing at Disney World--many crossroads, yes, but under a great deal of regularly repaired asphalt and cement, not to mention _people_ \--but he just stops himself from asking. To his bewilderment, however, Crowley's alarm begins to subside. "That's unexpected."

"You didn't know?"

Crowley raises his eyebrows. "Of course not. That wasn't in the terms."

"You can't even remember them," he counters, aware of a slowly growing chill. "How would you know--"

"I'd know; that would be the point of having a contract at all." Crowley relaxes back into his chair, but Castiel doesn't miss the flicker of uncertainty. "This isn't my doing, Castiel."

"We think the human infiltrators in Ichabod were responsible for the influx," he says carefully. "You expect me to believe their actions in Ichabod on behalf of the Crossroads is unrelated to this?"

"No, but that doesn't make it true," Crowley answers. "The circle was untested; confirming its existence and that it was functional was the only goal. Despite what you may think--or I, for that matter--humans can, on occasion, fulfill their own desires with the application of a sufficient work ethic--"

"I have endless faith in human ingenuity, but at their current level of technology, reality states failure is a given when it involves personally delivering thousands of maps throughout the state of Kansas in a three day timeframe." Crowley raises his eyebrows. "Occam's razor. I see no reason to assume a second group of demons was creeping around Kansas when yours were creeping there already."

"Creeping? Really, Castiel." Taking a drink from his glass, Crowley sighs. "Do you have any idea why your infiltrators, as you call them, would send everyone to Ichabod?"

"The barrier is falling," he starts. "I'm assuming telling them about that was how your demons convinced them to make contract in the first place."

"The backlash might be unpleasant, but certainly not dangerous in itself," Crowley says meditatively. "At least, not yet. So why would they--"

"The same reason the contract they made specified their children remain in Ichabod," he answers, watching Crowley carefully. "Did it never occur to whoever made the barrier that its existence would practically guarantee unwanted attention--"

"Why does it matter?" Looking put-upon, Crowley sighs. "Castiel, and I do deeply hate saying this, so consider this proof of my sincerity: you, of all people, shouldn't have a problem getting back to Dean in Chitaqua and the safety of the wards."

Castiel thinks: why am I enjoying this? And this part most of all. "Dean's in Ichabod."

* * *

From the expressions on the members of both Ichabod's and Chitaqua's patrols--with the sole exception of Anthi, running the entrance point and perimeter while Manuel and Teresa work on the getting the relay up--not one of them expected the perpetually busy, vaguely harassed mayor of Ichabod best known for her ability to look disapproving and annoyed over the rim of her glasses to transform from Executive Secretary of the Apocalypse to--well, _this_. With a pencil still holding up her hair, and as of this moment doing a shitty job of it.

Dean never made the mistake of underestimating her, but even he's vaguely surprised as she raps out crisp orders with the unthinking authority of someone who literally can't imagine anyone would even think to disobey. It works, too (a couple of his team leaders emerge from their daze as Alison finishes to look at him, but he cocks his head and they meekly concede with a nod). 

"Manuel said they just passed the first feeder but one of the snowplows is down, no idea why," Alison says as they start to the infirmary while patrol prepares for breaking the perimeter line, members going among the waiting crowd to shout instruction on where to go and what to do and hope everyone listens.

"Gas?" he asks, trying not to look like he's struggling to keep up, but Jesus she can set a pace.

"If it were gas," she says, not at all patiently, "they'd know why it stopped." Her eyes narrow thoughtfully. "They think maybe the second feeder before midnight, but the other two--"

"Who do I have out there right now?" he asks.

"Kamal and Sean."

Awesome. "Tell Kamal to send Sean to the third and fourth feeders, have him set two team members at each one, and tell anyone coming in about the relay. Help the people get there if they can," he adds, remembering Alicia talking about adhoc sleds for those not walking through fuck knows how high drifts. Including kids. 

"They're loading up everyone on the first buses while setting up the roadblock and stopping point. Uh--" Her eyes narrow. "Kamal says Sean's on his way to the other roads, and he's got his own team in position at Point A."

"Tell him good job," Dean says. "And if he--somehow--loses Kyle in the snow, don't worry about it."

Alison's mouth twitches. "He said thanks," she says. "Though not for which part of that."

"Hopefully both." 

Once they reach the infirmary--a set of two square buildings now, three floors each--they walk into controlled bedlam; to his startled eyes, patients are everywhere, everyone is in motion, and no one seems to have a goal other than keep moving. Even Alison comes to a stop, forehead creasing, and Dean subtly extends an arm if she needs the support.

"Fine," she says shortly, squeezing her eyes closed before taking a deep breath. "Selective filtering," she explains. "Not as easy as it sounds."

"I don't even know what that is," Dean assures her. "And I know it's not easy."

"Alison!" Dolores emerges from the chaos with a smile, which Dean assumes means either a.) this is normal or b.) she's crazy. "I got four people unplugging all unnecessary equipment now to take pressure off the generators when we switch."

"You need both buildings?" Alison asks, falling into step with her as Dean trails behind, looking at the sheets draped by various methods to give at least the illusion of privacy, injuries ranging from cut fingers to something requiring a lot of gauze, a supine patient, and a unsettlingly large needle.

"I could use another one," Dolores admits as they go through a door into much more controlled and therefore dangerous chaos; a glance around tells him they're in the ER. "We're okay for water, but I'd like some more blankets sent over. Hold up," she says, already jogging toward one of the beds, where a too-still woman is holding the hand of a little girl, barely five at Dean's guess, Karl holding a clipboard that he hands to Dolores with relief. Searching the room, every bed is full, and on a guess, they need more beds.

"Alison, tell Vera--no, tell _Amanda_ to tell Vera to get over here," he says, not sure how Vera might react to Alison taking the direct approach. "Joe can listen to them debating whatever the fuck they're doing. Can you find out where Alicia--"

A roar to their right gets both their attention, and Dean shoves Alison behind him as a beefy guy with a hastily bandaged head wound lurches to his feet, blood seeping through the gauze and down his cheek, face sickly pale and obviously delirious. He has just enough time to work out his strategy--seriously, the guy's fucking huge, almost as wide as he is tall--before Alicia casually wanders by him with a needle and an expectant expression, stopping a couple of feet away from the guy and tipping her head back to look up at the enraged face.

"You really shouldn't be up," she says clearly, and Dean has no time to even shout a warning before one massive fist shoots out. It would have been pointless even if he had; Alicia is crouching on the floor, unruffled as she takes a moment to decide on her target before shoving the needle directly into his thigh. "Anyone bigger than me want to help catch him?" she calls out, dodging one half-hearted kick as his eyes roll back in his head and catching him under the arms with a grunt. Over the guy's head, she sees Dean and grins. "Hey, Dean. What's up?"

It occurs to him he is, actually, bigger than her, or at least he's here, and hastily crosses the room to help. Between the two of them, they manage to get the groggy guy onto a gurney, where Alicia frowns as he starts to struggle, weaker, yeah, but also a lot less coordinated. "Maimouna's still getting--dammit. Dean, give me your hand?"

Blinking, he does, and belatedly braces himself when she uses it to guide her momentum on a quick jump onto the gurney, straddling his chest without putting any pressure on his ribs, knees pinning his arms just above the elbow. Placing one hand on his forehead, she firmly eases it back onto the thin mattress and frowns down at the man severely.

"You need to stop doing that," she states. "You're delirious. Terrible for thinking: don't do that. Or move, for that matter. No way to stitch you up otherwise, am I right?"

The man groans, though whether that's in agreement or just on principle, no idea. Dean feels Alison come up behind him. "So she's--always like this?"

"Yep." He feels like he should do something, but what, no idea. Dolores appears on the other side of the bed, taking out a penlight to checks the man's pupils, mouth tightening grimly at whatever's going on.

"Go ahead," Dolores says finally. 

"Awesome. I need the next room or vaguely clear space," Alicia says, then brightens. "Here's fine, actually; this works. Matt!"

Dean and Alison both turn to see Matt, wearing a bright pink scrub top (oh God, don't laugh), appear with a stainless steel medical tray and looking worried. "Got everything you wanted. I think."

"I really don't think we--need to be here," Alison says queasily when Matt comes close enough to see the _holy shit that's a big goddamn needle_. "Dolores," she says hopefully. "Send someone to Lanak; you requisition anything you need, and I do mean anything. Generators should be here in the next forty minutes; tell them what you want is my order, if they argue, yell for me, I'll be listening. I'll just--" She cuts off, and Dean turns around to see her staring at nothing before she abruptly starts to go back the way they came. Nodding at concerned Dolores, Dean has to jog to keep up, catching her just as she emerges onto the street and turning toward the west end of the street.

The not-distant-enough churning darkness of the coming storm seems to consume the entire western sky, but that's not what Alison's looking at it: it's people crowding the end of the street, a mass of barely controlled chaos, held on the fragile leash of the patrol members guiding them to Volunteer Services for those waiting with the list of safe buildings.

"Perimeter's dissolved," Alison says. "That was--different."

"What did that feel like?"

"Happy," she says softly, starting to smile. "That they're going to survive tonight." Straightening, she shakes herself. "And my job is to make sure they do."

Dean grins. "Lead the way."

* * *

Crowley stiffens. "Say again?"

" _We_ are in Ichabod, first person plural, please pay attention," he answers impatiently. "Dean called in everyone remaining in Chitaqua this morning in the very distant hope they can somehow get to us." Crowley's blank expression doesn't change. "An entire state showing up for a New Year's party is somewhat noticeable and we assumed the worst. We aren't leaving Ichabod. We wouldn't even if we could, not now."

Crowley's mouth works silently for several long, deeply appreciated moments. "You need to leave." Something in his voice makes Castiel still. "Immediately if not sooner--"

"Why?" He searches Crowley's face. "What's waiting so eagerly to get inside the barrier?"

Crowley shakes his head sharply, focusing on him in what seems to be utter horror. "Dean is there? _Now_? You let him out of Chitaqua? Why would you do that?"

"And half of Chitaqua's hunters, at least until the rest arrive."

"How could this happen?"

"Yes, you seem to have planned for every contingency except Dean being himself." Crowley looks at him incredulously. "Dean Winchester, sold his soul to Hell for his brother, very dramatic, but considering his career up to then, not what one might call unprecedented behavior. The barrier is going to fall, Ichabod is filling with desperate people, and he's a hunter; he's going to try and save them. _All of them_."

"You're _letting him_?" Crowley begins to flush with rage. "You have to get him--get both of you out of there! He's our last, our _only_ chance--"

"What exactly do you think I can do?"

"Knock him out and _carry him_ back to Chitaqua if you have to!" Crowley snarls. "Just get _out of there_ \--"

"I thought I'd help him instead." Crowley's mouth snaps closed. "Save the world one overrun town a time. Apparently, we're starting here."

"What are you doing, Castiel?" Crowley asks softly, looking at him as if he's never seen him before. "Or I suppose the question is, what's he done to you?"

"His orders are that we fight. I obey my leader."

"You…." Crowley closes his eyes briefly, smoothing his expression, a smirk curving up one corner of his mouth when he looks at him again. "Look at you. Castiel of the Host, angel of the Lord, the little rebel who Fell rather than kneel in obedience once you discovered how to stand on your own pathetic excuse for feet. The Host, Lucifer, God himself, Dean bloody Winchester Mark One….not even a dent. This Dean must be something else; five months with him, you're on your knees like you never left."

Castiel tilts his head, waiting in silence until Crowley's smirk fades. "We don't have time for this. Tell me how long it will take the barrier to fall. Minutes, seconds, weeks, perhaps--"

"It began at dusk yesterday. How long, I can't be sure, but certainly no more than a week." Dropping back in his chair, Crowley glares at him. "Don't get too excited. As it weakens, more will be able to cross the border and survive, at least for a little while."

It's far better than the worst case scenario, but that doesn't make it good. "So we have at least a few days before they survive long enough to do any damage?"

"Possibly more, now that I think about it." Crowley's eyes film over briefly, fingers tapping on the arm of his chair in thought. "You say all of the state is coming to Ichabod now? Since that's where they're coming as well, that will slow them down quite a bit. Instant gratification is always preferable."

Castiel swallows.

"Whoever made terms certainly did think of everything." His expression clears briefly, reluctant amusement chasing itself across his face. "Surely you see it. Survival of the fittest, as it were; those that arrive in time are protected by the lives of those that fail. Or, if you like, the more people that arrive, the fewer remain to distract attention from Ichabod. Elegant, really. I'm impressed."

"You would be."

Crowley flashes him a brief smile. "I'm looking forward to meeting them, whoever they are. That kind of potential is certainly worth the price I'll pay to get them." His expression darkens, and Castiel files that information away for worry at a more opportune time. "Won't help, though. Castiel, I don't think you understand--"

"That the barrier didn't just keep Kansas safe from what's usually here, but attracted the attention of everything else?" he asks rhetorically, and Crowley scowls. "A mystical barrier around an entire state: yes, that does tend to get _everyone's_ attention. How my Brother missed it--"

"Please," Crowley says, rolling his eyes. "He can't see it. And yes, before you ask: same very ancient and very forgotten sigils used in the protections. He wouldn't even know it was there unless he tried to cross it."

Castiel stares at him for a moment. "The creator of the circle also created the barrier?"

"Again," Crowley starts.

"You don't know." He makes himself focus. "Do you know if they're still alive?"

"I don't," Crowley concedes. "However, if it's any consolation, I doubt it. Someone with that kind of talent either gains power enough to protect themselves very quickly or is used and eliminated."

He tilts his head, startled. "You disapprove?"

"If they belonged to someone other than me, not at all," Crowley answers, raising his eyebrows. "Fear is powerful, Castiel, but it grows stale with time and Hell has that in excess; to depend on that alone is foolish. I didn't become King of the Crossroads by being a fool."

"You gained it in Lilith's bed."

Crowley smiles, a flash, here and gone. "As I said, fear grows stale. A demon who rose from the rack with that kind of potential still within them isn't a resource to be discarded with impunity. If they were mine, the carrot is as important as the stick when the goal is to assure loyalty."

He starts to mention what just happened at the crossroads and then stops, staring at Crowley's slow smile in belated understanding. "Just so," Crowley says, pleased. "I do like you, Castiel."

"The barrier," Castiel says, setting that revelation aside. "Other than its properties in repelling almost anything not human--or brownie--what else was it designed to do?"

"What do you mean?"

He's not actually sure. He doesn't think anyone at the meeting earlier understood the implications of that lost time in the mess: at least, not entirely. Even a brief search of his memory has yielded little, he'd need decades to find the break, but--for a moment, he sees a woman dressed as a hunter, a sevenday per year on the earth…. "Do the Misborn still hunt the Five Rivers in my Brother's name?"

Crowley seems not to understand before he's treated to the first and only time he's ever seen a demon pale. "Why would you ask--"

"You don't know," he interrupts. "That's what's waiting outside the barrier."

Crowley stares at him. "There are no gods on earth for them to hunt."

"They may prefer the flavor of gods, but in their absence, anything would be preferable to their sheer lack of other fare, and terrorizing the dead is no substitute," he answers, thinking of Alison, then Teresa and Wendy and any other practitioners who may be in Ichabod. Not their preferred fare, no, but better than nothing and far more attractive than mere mortal lives.

Crowley doesn't argue the point, sitting back in his chair without any effort to conceal his discomfort. "Their attention span is capricious at best. You have a reason to think something may have elicited their interest here?"

"Other than the barrier itself?" He thinks of Nate for a moment; with their attention fixed here due to Alison, there's no possible way they'll miss him, and if he's right about what happened at Winchester House…. Teresa's wards might help, but in their current position and form, that might not be enough. "How long until the barrier is restored?"

"Oh, _now_ you're wondering what's taking so long to get that sacrifice finished? Interesting." Crowley smiles at him. "Mortal body, but those angelic sensibilities are still in working order, I see. Expedience in the name of purpose; since that's Dean Winchester for you, I wouldn't be surprised if you offered to slaughter them yourself if they take too long about it. Even a demon can't hope to match how much practice you've had attaining a high body count with nothing but your sword."

"I've done it before," he answers evenly. "But it was always clean."

"Ah, got you." Crowley takes a sip of his wine, smacking his lips obnoxiously. "Well, no worries there; no time for fun, they're on the clock. It took weeks to build the first one, and all they have is the time before the barrier collapses entirely to raise the power. When the old one finally breaks, they use the backlash to hold it up, but that won't last long; they have to power it by the next dawn or it's gone for good."

"Where?"

"Please." Crowley rolls his eyes. "No idea at all. Feel better? Now you can be honest when you say that there was no way for you to save them. No one will think to ask if you really wanted to."

He takes a deep breath. "After it's over. Can you find out where?"

"Possibly. Why?"

"The bodies." Crowley blinks at him in confusion. "They need to be identified, if possible, then burned with salt. Ichabod will doubtless be our priority when this is over, but--"

"You're still going to try and fight?" Crowley slowly rises to his feet. "None of you will survive this, much less win."

"Then we'll save as many as we can until then."

"If Dean dies--and you, in case it hasn't occurred to you how fucked he'll be without you here--it won't matter. We're all dead anyway."

"It will matter," he says, "to those who would have died and won't, because we stayed."

Crowley stares at him, eyes unreadable. 

"You'd make a terrible angel and a worse human," he says deliberately. "He's my charge, and mortality does encourage making contingency plans to protect him in the event of my death. He will survive. All of Chitaqua will follow him--even if all of them don't survive, I contacted people who can help them. If he doesn't go there within a certain period, one of them knows to come here to find him."

"And not a one of them know who he really is," Crowley says softly, and Castiel just controls the flinch. "World he doesn't know, war he's being forced to fight, people who think he's someone else--not to mention what will happen the first time he sees Lucifer riding his brother; that reunion will be something to see. Right before Lucifer kills him. Second verse, same as the first: Castiel walks away and Dean Winchester dies, tell me if you've heard this one before."

Castiel bites down on his tongue hard enough to taste blood. "I didn't bring him here--"

"True," Crowley agrees, stepping closer. "You're just condemning him to survive here--if he even can--all on his own. You can do better than that."

"Do you think there's anything I wouldn't do…." He doesn't have time for this. "I need to return."

"Yes, so you can try surviving despite the certainty of failure." Crowley studies him intently. "How are you feeling, Castiel?"

"Impatient to return," he answers warily as Crowley takes another step closer. "If you would--"

"You liked the coffee?" Crowley shrugs at his blank expression. "It's very good coffee. My own special blend."

"I thought it was Kona."

"That pathetic little hamlet soon to be filled with dead bodies from the sacrifice--I can get the name for you. Problem is, I can't get through the barrier once it goes up."

Surprised, he wonders why he didn't think of that. "I could…." He eyes Crowley, watching him only inches away. "What are the terms?"

"Easy ones: we'll get to that. I can't get into Kansas, but I can bring you to me." He smiles faintly at Castiel's expression. "Here and back again, no strings attached. One month from today, first crossroad outside Chitaqua. Draw your true name in your own blood on the box before you bury it; I'll find you."

"How?"

"Easy as anything," he murmurs, and suddenly, long fingers are trailing down the side of his face, thumb stroking at the corner of his mouth. "Terms are you let me do this so I can. Human bodies have their advantages; from what I've heard, this is your favorite thing about them."

This isn't what Castiel expected when it came to propositioning. "You want to fuck me for the name of a town?" he asks incredulously.

"No time, though lovely thought. We'll come back to that at a more convenient time." Castiel feels a wall against his back without any clear memory of having moved and Crowley smiles up at him. "It seems in some way your body works just fine, Castiel."

"My sheets can elicit the same reaction," he answers when Crowley's thigh presses against his cock, aware of something wrong when he can't make himself shove him away. "Sexual organs respond to stimulus with neither judgment nor taste, and generally lack standards."

Crowley wrinkles his nose with a moue of manufactured hurt. "You wound me."

"You bore me," he says, painfully aware of the spreading lethargy, a faint prickle beneath his skin that feels vaguely familiar. "Either name the terms, or--"

"Just close your eyes," he says, breath brushing across Castiel's skin, "and remember you'd do anything for Dean Winchester."

Crowley's lips touch his, a brief moment of dry warmth, the feather light touch against his cheek trailing to his jaw. "Human bodies are very nice," he breathes against his mouth. "Humans, though, they're fragile: break so easily, so limited in what you can do with them. Have to be careful, don't you? Not to hurt them." Crowley's tongue flickers across his lower lip in a flare of wet heat before abruptly, his wrists are pinned against the wall. Startled, he sucks in a breath at the unforgiving grip, the fingers biting into his skin, grinding flesh and bone together, and as if from a distance, he hears the sound of his own quickened breathing, but he can't gather his thoughts enough to decide how to react. "Not to scare them to death when realize what they're really taking to bed."

Everything seems to be slowing down too much, the prickle become firmer, almost painful. "What are you doing?"

"Believe it or not," Crowley murmurs, "I'm trying to help." The distracting brush of lips shatters his attention and Crowley's wet tongue slides eagerly into his mouth.

Hell is purpose incarnate; death and destruction, war without end, bloodshed without limit, all for pleasure in pain; Crowley tastes like every death he dealt in Hell, pleasure and satisfaction, the endless hunger for more, starving for it and knowing it will never be enough, either time or prey.

"That's it," Crowley whispers cryptically, fingers curving possessively around the back of his neck, short nails digging furrows into his skin. "Human bodies, yes please, but better without the human in them. Can't hurt me--unless you want to, of course." Sharp teeth rake brutally across his lower lip, bruising the tender skin; when Crowley draws back, he smiles with blood flecked lips before he slowly licks them clean. "I like that sort of thing."

Crowley groans, low and pleased, as Castiel wraps a hand around his throat, feeling him swallow hard against his palm. Coaxing, he draws back, forcing Crowley to follow, slick tongue frantically sliding along the seam of his lips before Castiel bites down brutally in a welter of fresh blood.

Crowley growls, throat vibrating against his palm, and Castiel jerks back, almost staggering. "What…" Tightening his hold on Crowley's throat, he focuses at the sight of his own hand: the invisible branded lines on the back meant to capture Grace pulse sluggishly in throbs of dull pain. Swallowing, he has time to see Crowley's anticipatory smile before a white hot spark flashes through him, nerves screaming awake that he didn't even realize his body had.

Jerking back, he staggers helplessly again the back of the chair he was sitting in earlier, dazed, trying to catch his breath as another throb of pain shoots through him: those aren't nerves and that's not his body. Not his human one, anyway.

"Now that's impressive."

Head snapping up, he sees Crowley inexplicably on the other side of the room, surrounded by crumbling plaster as he reaches up to absently wipe at the fresh blood drying on his mouth and smeared across his cheeks, eyes entirely red. Licking his lips, he strokes his fingers down his throat, and Castiel sees in horror the faint red of a light sunburn in the shape of his hand, already fading to nothing. "What…." Another flash of pain crashes through him, and dropping to the floor, he abruptly recognizes this: Jeffrey, the blood-smeared bullet.

"It's all there," Crowley says hoarsely, sounding satisfied as he pushes off the wall in a rain of broken plaster. "Wasn't sure how much was left after the Host clipped your wings. They did an excellent job so far as that goes: cut the wires, took the gas away, made a bit of a mess there, really. Engine, though, that's just fine. Short-sighted of them, wasn't it?"

Castiel wipes shaking fingers across his mouth, not surprised to see them stained with blood before he doubles over, another shock of pain rippling through him as his stomach empties itself on the floor. Squeezing his eyes open, he stares at it in horror, trying to concentrate enough to calculate the difference--by an order of magnitude--between blood smeared on a single bullet and ingestion of at least a quarter cup and expelling not nearly enough of it.

"They shoved you in a new model, whole and entire," he hears over the roar in his ears. "Suppose they thought that would do the trick." Through watering eyes, Castiel looks up to see Crowley watching him with clinical interest. "They were wrong about that. Just needed to hook up the new connectors and fuel up."

"This will." He spits, but it doesn't disperse sour taste growing on his tongue. How long did it take him to be affected by Jeffrey? Longer, he would have thought, but at the moment, he can't be sure. "Kill me." Or worse, it won't; if last time was any indication of the progress, it could be weeks intensifying before it starts to ease off. Maybe months, depending on how much he retained in his system. That's a very long time to be without full control of himself, and Alicia _held his hand_ as if….

"Doubtful," Crowley says thoughtfully. "I would give you more, but I'm not sure how much you can contain these days."

"I _can't_." The black spots dancing on his peripheral vision threaten to consume it entirely. Taking a shuddering breath, Castiel forces himself to focus and abruptly, his full range of sight snaps on, everything slamming into him at once before he desperately shoves it closed. Panting into the stiff brocade, he fights down panic; there's no way to know what will happen if he loses control now. "I'm not Sam Winchester," he grates out. "I can't contain this." His true form is repulsed, pain rippling through him like being gutted alive, over and over and over without hope of end; his human body, unlike Sam's, wasn't exposed in early childhood; between the two….

"Not for long, no," Crowley agrees critically. "But 'long' is relative; it will take a very long time for your body to burn it out, Castiel. Far simpler--and less agonizing--to simply use it for its intended purpose."

Castiel shakes his head, trying to make sense of the words, but the flare of pain almost knocks him unconscious. And Crowley won't stop _talking_.

"Obviously you haven't considered the benefits," Crowley continues in a gruesomely cheerful voice. "Let me explain while you finish up. Unlike Sam Winchester, you can use it the way a human--or even a demon--can't. Same engine: just different type of fuel."

Castiel clings to consciousness until the agony lessens enough to remember how to speak. "Why…."

"That town won't survive when the barrier breaks, Castiel."

Castiel stares up at him, uncomprehending, feeling razors slice into every nerve at once, forcing them alight, and the pain vanishes all at once. Gasping, he shuts his eyes, aware of a pulsing that seems to squirm beneath every inch of skin, darkly eager, impatience for release.

"Better?" Crowley asks as Castiel shakily pushes himself back on his heels, unbalanced by the endless pulsing. "Now, Castiel, it's time to face reality. It generally has little to do with faith or hope in the face of impossible odds. Miracles went the way of the dodo bird, and I was never fond of them anyway." His voice softens unexpectedly. "We've got to make this work, all of it; it won't happen otherwise. He's our last chance, the only one we have left. Everyone must do their part, and that includes you. Like wealth, there are few problems that can't be solved with the application of sufficient power. You have it; now use it to get you both out of this mess.

"For what it's worth," Crowley says soberly, "if there were another way, I would have taken it. I do like you, Castiel. Always have."

Castiel opens his eyes. "Do you?"

* * *

Dean instructs a group of volunteers who are running Plug Duty (Jesus, seriously), Laura among them, reciting Alison's instructions exactly and adding firm looks every so often, which seems to help.

"…anything goes wrong," he finishes sternly to his audience. "We blow up."

"Oh God," a voice says in horror.

"Whole town. So get it right," he continues. "Any questions? Dismissed."

Turning around, he sees Alison behind him, the group she was talking to already gone, and trying to look disapproving. "Blow up? Really?"

"Like you weren't heavily implying it," he scoffs, eyes flickering to the west and the disappearing bus as another group of people makes for the entrance point, volunteers now given the job of herding rather than stopping with promises of shelter, blankets, and food. "Anything from the other towns?"

"Three so far," she says, eyes unfocusing for a minute. "Lanak is having the time of her life organizing everyone, and Mercedes just reported they're bringing in what they culled while she finishes securing shelter for the animals."

"They'll be okay?"

"We got three people staying out there with them," she says, looking amused at Dean's horror. "Dean, gonna tell you now, we could all die, but whoever gets stable duty is gonna be fine; they probably fought for it. Those barns may smell, but a stable of horses and barn of dairy cows is a lot of body heat."

"And the rest?"

"Pigs and poultry are fine, they're always protected. Predators," she says, mouth turning down. "Sheep and cows in the winter fields--I'm told they'll be okay by people who deal with them daily, so gonna trust they know what they're talking about." She looks at him. "Did you know a single cow can make a thousand burgers?"

Huh. "That's a lot of burgers."

"I know." Shaking her head, she starts toward Admin then turns around. "Dean?"

Dean opens his mouth to answer but the words won't form, so he gives up, shaking his head before starting down the road to the eastern side of the ward line.

"Dean?" he hears Alison say, and feels those ripples pass him again before she's beside him. "Dean, where are you going?"

"Something's wrong," he hears himself say and would be unbelievably glad he can still talk but-- "I gotta get to him."

"Cas, got it," she says, and he realizes that he's jogging when she huffs a breath. "Thank God you agreed running from danger should be my priority. Anytime you're ready, by the way."

Dean wants to ask who she's talking to--it's definitely not him--when Amanda's in front of him, and the only reason he doesn't knock her out of the way is she shoves him right on his ass. Now he knows why he didn't see who was following him since he left headquarters.

"Dean, what's going on with Cas?" Amanda says, and then stops short, eyes wide when he pulls his knife.

"I'm going to the ward line," he says, climbing to his feet, buoyed by the flood of unfocused anger; he can use that. "Over your dead body or not, it's all the same to me. So what's it gonna be?"

* * *

It's not even a thought; the flash of violent rage coalesces abruptly into intent before he realizes what he's doing. The release is as shocking as it is satisfying; Crowley slams back into the wall and through two inches of plaster before hitting the solid stone behind it with a breathless gasp and the sound of cracking bones. 

"Castiel--" 

"Don't talk." Crowley's head slams back into the stone with a thick, muffled sound and Castiel wraps an invisible hand around his throat. "Are you fully aware of how much damage can be done to that body before its unusable, even by you?" He tightens his hold and feels cartilage breaking. "I am."

Climbing to his feet, an icy clarity sweeps through him as he watches Crowley's pathetic struggles. Possibilities fill his mind, impossible to stop and impossible to even remember to want to try. He observed the work of the most expert master of the rack ever to walk the Pit, and there's so much now he wants to try.

* * *

He's watched her with Cas, knows every weakness and the fact she doesn't have many and most are related to dealing with someone faster and stronger than a human. 

"I gotta get to him before…" Something, but that anger running under his skin tells him something's very wrong, and standing around here won't fix it. Getting there and killing whatever caused it: that'll fix it. "Well?"

"I get it," she says, arms out at her sides, deceptively helpless; he's not stupid enough to believe it. "I'm going with you."

"Fine," he says, watching her carefully as he passes before breaking into a dead run. Cas, he thinks as hard as he can: stop. Come _here_. Now. "Try to keep up."

* * *

With unexpected strength, Crowley escapes before he can decide, crumpling to the ground in a pile of plaster and dust. "I wouldn't, Castiel," Crowley says, smiling up at him with blood-stained teeth. "You have a job to do right now, don't you? No time to waste."

Like that, Castiel jerks himself under control, and the low throbbing turns sullen, pushing impatiently, testing; powdering every bone in his body-- _stop_ \--every stray thought is a danger-- _stop_ \--every emotion-- _stop_ \--but something in his head is shouting, has been shouting, and he can't understand what it is, why--

_Cas! Stop!_

Dean. He'll never forgive him for this.

_Come here._

"Castiel--"

He slams Crowley back into the wall again before he can stop himself. "I'll strip your skin from your body by inches and hang your rotting carcass on the wall if you say another word." Looking at Crowley, he realizes how badly he wants him to speak, so he can do it. He wants to do it anyway, if he doesn't. Just because he can.

 _Now._ The shouting abruptly becomes a headache, stabbing into the back of his mind. 

When he opens his eyes, he's crouching just outside Ichabod's wards, watching as horrified confirmation flickers sluggishly to life in flashes of warning, buzzing gold inches from his fingertips. Looking down, he realizes he's in a blackened crater still smoldering sullenly, surrounded in bags of coffee, and in the distance is a figure, running toward him. Dean. 

"No," he breathes, and vanishes.

* * *

A quarter of the street has been reduced to nearly uniform rubble when Castiel feels the shift in his mind of someone approaching, breaking his unyielding concentration in turning rock and wood and glass into uniform chunks of destruction and shape them into miniature mountain ranges. A human shouldn't be able to come this close--no one should _want to_ \--but only one person could break his focus, and he doesn't need to turn his head to see Dean only a few feet away, searching the street.

"Come on, Cas," Dean says with surreally normal irritation. "I know you're here, so don't make me walk on top of you to prove it."

With a thought, Castiel alters perception of the street to include Dean. "You shouldn't be here."

"You didn't want me here, you would have already done your vanishing act again," Dean replies, careful to hug the wall of the former convenience store Castiel is sitting against and avoiding anything that might be in his line of sight. "Not like you haven't been jumping all over this goddamn town. Alison's pissed."

Dean's thoughts are a tempting jumble as he approaches, beckoning, but after hours of teaching himself to ignore him, it's only a small effort to not read him now. It takes slightly longer to remember why he shouldn't do that or even want to, and he's glad he assumed there would eventually be a delay and planned accordingly. He turns his attention back to the rubble, closing his eyes again; he doesn't have to use human sight to see what he's doing anymore, and it's almost stopped bothering him.

A warm body drops beside him, coat brushing his arm. "So. How's it going?"

"How did you find me?"

Dean's incredulity is almost soothing. "How do you think?"

Castiel doesn't answer, aware of the faint, insistent (somewhat unhappy) throb in his arm finally fading. Compared to the very effective goad of physical agony if he stops his wholesale destruction of all within his line of sight, it's almost nothing, but somehow, it penetrated even that, a constant reminder. He should have broken the binding the moment he realized--but he didn't. 

"Clearing out some of the condemned buildings for Tony?" Dean asks curiously, looking at the half-demolished street. 

Castiel nods shortly, carefully piling the next mound of debris; he supposes this is an example of Dean easing into a subject. "Even destruction can be turned to useful purpose. It--accepts that, apparently." Dealing with unending agony is far harder when it's so easy to make it stop: _use it_. To block the pain, to destroy buildings, to kill vast numbers of humans by sheer accident, which it most certainly would like him to do.

Anthropomorphizing power is ridiculous, but it's soothing to think of it frustrated with being limited to destroying inanimate objects rather than glorying in rending living human flesh from bone.

"Yeah, good idea," Dean says, and he can only hope it wasn't in response to that thought; protecting Dean from exposure to his thoughts is difficult when he's this close.

Trying to ignore the too-quiet man beside him, he finishes shaping the rubble with care, aware of the warning spikes along his nerves, sullen in its displeasure. He can't contain it, so there are only two methods of getting rid of it; let it slowly burn itself out of his system (and hope it doesn't damage him in the process considering the quantity) with a great deal of pain, or use it. And it doesn't approve of any use that isn't destructive and would far prefer taking life.

There's only so much to destroy, however, and it still shifts hungrily beneath his skin like maggots squirming, testing his control every moment. Grace was far more passive; it was content to wait for him to decide what to do with it. This tries to give him ideas in case he shouldn't think of any himself. If only that were true.

It desperately wants to give him ideas of what could be done to the human body beside him, as it did when any human wandered within range of him. This time, however, his will is supplemented by something else: negation that precludes even considering the question in it's entirely, unbreakable and unbendable, absolute. Gravity is less powerful than that; it stills in the face of that, slinking away like a dog with its tail between its legs, chastened and accepting the chastisement as just. 

He sucks in a breath. The heir to the Pit brooked no rivals in his time there and dealt with them without delay, and Hell's memory is very long; that would explain what happened with Crowley when he wanted to make a deal. "That was you."

"So something went wrong," Dean says conversationally, possibly genuinely oblivious. Even with his eyes closed, he can see Dean pulling his legs in, resting an arm over his knees. Glancing down at the bare, blackened ground below them, Dean measures the blast radius around them, eyebrows raised in curiosity. "Everything's going great," he says, and Castiel is (somewhat) unwillingly subjected to a rapid slide show of the afternoon and early evening's events, for Dean learned a great deal while showing him all the kinds of pie he'd ever consumed that day. "Teresa's a little freaked out to keep losing connection to the earth and couldn't figure out where or how. I told her not to worry about it."

"It doesn't like me very much right now." That's an understatement, but it still obeyed him when he told it to be silent, however grudgingly; he's not sure what to make of that other than there's absolutely nothing about this that isn't obscene.

"Huh." Dean lets out a breath, noting the lack of frost with approval and taking off his jacket to tuck underneath him before sitting down again. "Nice report, by the way, on what Crowley told you about the timeline on the barrier; never got one like that. Lacking in detail, though, like any. That really all you talked about?"

Without meaning to, Castiel shatters the foundation of the building off-center too early; a surge of power holds it in place, an explosion that would greedily take out the entire street at once held in check just in time with a nauseating shock of pain. Demons did something similar with their host bodies, all and any damage suspended until they left them; it's interesting to use an obscene method for practical purpose. Redirecting the force, it goes upward in an impressive arc of debris before settling back into a safe mound of debris.

"Dean." He concentrates on the mechanics of shaping the debris into the correct shape. "I don't expect forgiveness for this, but--"

"You can't expect forgiveness when there's nothing to forgive. You didn't do anything wrong." Castiel wouldn't believe him, but the sense of negation changes into humming affirmation, colored in determination and bedrock certainty. "Except that you've been hiding from me since you got back and dude, we gotta work on our communication skills if _reading my mind_ wasn't enough… Christ."

"Don't be facetious."

"Don't be stupid." Dean's voice sharpens. "We're in this together, and that means everything. Look at me."

"No." He's not sure who he's sparing; Dean seeing his eyes, or himself seeing Dean's reaction when he does. "You should leave. You have responsibilities--"

"What do you think I've been doing?" Dean asks, a smile in his voice. "Got everything sorted out, and Chitaqua's commander officially went off duty thirty minutes ago."

The sheer inanity of that response gives him pause. 

"If you snap me back to headquarters and I have to walk all the way back here, I'll kick your ass." He can feel Dean looking at him. "Cas, whatever Crowley did to you--"

"I didn't say no. That satisfied consent."

"Demons have a lower standard than the Host," Dean murmurs, bitterly amused. "That's an actual surprise to know. Though since the Host likes torture as much as demons, might have just been perk to get to do the fun stuff to get the yes in the name of righteousness." There's another silence. "How long until that shit kills you?"

"It won't." To his relief, Dean understands immediately, sucking in a breath. "As long as I--use it--it's not a problem." The problem is, it's not Grace; it's angry and greedy and _hungry_ ; never more than now has the reality of the similarities between angels and demons been so clear. Purpose twisted, but still purpose, and it's purpose is gleeful destruction, joy in death, everything the Host is and had been on earth without the leash of their Father's will.

"How long will it take to get rid of it?"

"Longer than I can remain conscious without overdose if this is all that I do with it." He takes a breath, forming more of the debris into the proper shape. "Once there is nothing else to destroy, I'm not sure what to do with it after that."

"What'd he want you to do with it?"

"If I know demons, the most practical solution would be to clear all the roads from here to Chitaqua," he answers flatly. "And possibly teleport everyone that could fit behind Chitaqua's wards directly there. The remainder could be used to kill anything I might find if I took a drive around the state, since I doubt I could pass Chitaqua's wards like this."

"They're your wards."

"They're my wards, and if I'm a danger, they will respond to that. I never assumed I couldn't be used against Dean or Chitaqua."

"Right." Dean sets his jaw. "That why you're keeping your distance from Teresa's."

He's not sure he'd stay on this side of sanity if he actually felt them respond to him as a demon, and he's far too close already to risk slipping here. Not when thought equals action, and he has the power to make almost anything happen. His thoughts unregulated are a danger to everyone around him, and it wants to obey them so badly.

"And what are you gonna do after?" Dean demands. "Scream in agony for a few weeks while I watch?"

Stung, he jerks around to look at Dean before he can stop himself. "You think that's something I'm looking forward to? The other option is I lose control entirely and kill everyone…."

"You're not," Dean states, "gonna go on a rampage, come on." Before he realizes Dean's intent, he reaches out, thumb sliding down his temple and stopping at the corner of his eye, smile widening. "Blue, in case you're curious. Not even a shadow. I figured that's why you wouldn't look at me, but since you're not actually containing it now, didn't make sense it would be affecting your body."

"That's the least of my worries." Dean raises an eyebrow in polite refutation of the obvious. "It already affected-- _changed_ me. Or haven't you been paying attention?"

"It's putting you in a shitty mood," Dean replies. "Don't blame you, but you gotta stop worrying you're going to become someone else entirely and start thinking about what we're going to do about this."

He swallows. "'We.'"

" _We_ ," Dean confirms, voice softening. "Now you know when I said everything, I meant it. We'll figure this out, okay?"

He nods, mostly because he's not sure how to argue the point.

"So--you're destroying some useless buildings to keep this in check until we get a plan together," Dean says, 'obviously' unspoken but crystal clear. "Good call. Time for a plan."

He'd like one of those, yes. "Do you happen to have one in mind?"

"Not sure," Dean answers softly, thumb still pressed against his skin. That Dean is touching him at all now is a shock; letting him do it is unforgiveable, but stopping him is unthinkable. "Hey, question while I’m thinking--can you tell if anything's plugged in? Nothing on generator power, though: just, uh, everywhere else?"

Castiel blinks, but Dean's mind helpfully confirms he's being literal, and obediently, he checks the town, and takes care of a few problems in that line.

"Thanks," Dean says. "So the sacrifice--any way we can track it down, location, something?"

He thought of that, of course, and even tried to search the future, but the results had been--confusing and horrifying by turn. Possibility, he remembers; nothing is written yet, not anymore, so anything can happen. 

"No, not yet. Assuming whoever is doing it as a modicum of intelligence--which I'm assuming they do--they've warded themselves against detection as well as the backlash from the barrier falling. Depending on how intelligent whoever doing this is, they'll wait until the last minute to start killing those marked for sacrifice."

"What does that have to do with the--oh, the wards can't block anyone finding out what they're doing?"

"Usually yes, but in this case, it's a matter of scale. Crowley said it would take more than two thousand lives." Considering Crowley's regard for human life, 'more' probably means the number is at least double that. "A blood sacrifice isn't easy to hide when working with far less; once they close the circle, they won't be able to hide it for long. The moment it's detectable, Ichabod wouldn't be nearly as attractive to some of the creatures crossing the border as an active human sacrifice in progress," he explains. "One horrific benefit of this is that the deaths will need to be accomplished as quickly as possible."

"I don't even know what to think of that." Dean taps idly on one knee, like this is simply another problem to be dealt with and not an obscenity crawling inside someone he once considered a friend. "What about--"

"Why are you doing this?" 

Dean pauses, tipping his head back against the building. "For some reason, I'm pretty sure that's not the question you want to ask. No reason to think that, except I was almost to the wards on my way to the crossroads to kill Crowley before Amanda stopped me."

"How would you have--"

"Found you? I would have," Dean states, which he interprets as 'no idea whatsoever'. "Jesus, she's good; I almost didn't get her gun, but she had me on the ground fast enough that it didn't matter. Remind me never to believe a goddamn word she says, by the way. Go with me, my ass."

"I have to find out how you do that," he says in surprise before forcing himself to return to the subject. "Dean--"

"Then again, when I told her the problem, she was pretty much onboard with the killing Crowley plan until I--you got back." Dean rubs the heel of his boot into the ground thoughtfully. "Look, don't be pissed, but--we made a deal, I had to or she would have probably locked me up in headquarters or something. Before you say anything--she's one street away now, and I'm pretty sure she's pissed enough right now at me for getting away from her this time without keeping us both invisible and she finds out later we were right in front of her."

He looks away.

"And she's gonna find out," Dean adds honestly. "Come on, Cas."

When she reaches the street, Castiel alters perception enough to include her but exclude all others, on the off-chance that more humans will for reasons unknown wander this direction. What's wrong with them; it's baffling.

Amanda stops short, and Castiel doesn't have to look to be aware of her relief. "I’m going to fucking kill you," she says to show her affection. "Both of you."

Dean displays his suicidal tendencies. "What took you so long? Get lost or something?"

Castiel stiffens, but it's too late to stop her, pointless to alter perception, and a truly terrible idea to snap her back to their headquarters. Oblivious, she jogs toward them, staying as close to the buildings behind them as Dean did. The crawling under his skin strengthens--humans are prey at the best of times--but he slams down on it before it accomplish more than a half-hostile snarl, waiting out the retaliatory pain grimly as he methodically destroys the foundation of a former bakery as slowly as possible.

Coming to a stop, she looks between them, expression worried and relieved at once. "Everything okay?" 

"Awesome," Dean tells her sunnily. "You know, except the existential shit. We're gonna need more time. Make sure everyone stays inside the wards from Baltimore to Fifth; we don't need civilians wandering around. Patrol stays south of Fifth period, but tell them to be ready to get themselves and anyone nearby behind the wards, too, fast. This can't cross them, so that's probably the safest place anyway. We may have to move fast, so be ready, okay?"

"For what?"

Dean blows out a breath. "Let's go with anything."

"Got it." Keeping her attention on Dean, she raises an eyebrow. "Alison is gonna want an explanation, by the way."

He makes a face. "Tell Alison we'll explain later."

"From Cas," she corrects him, and Castiel stiffens involuntarily. "Something about what will happen next time Cas deliberately goes outside her range to talk to demons alone, I didn't get it all. Half of it wasn't even verbal."

"That," Dean says, brightening, "is a good idea; tell her we're making a list. Joe holding down the fort?"

She nods distractedly, eyes darting to Castiel and back to Dean before she takes a deep breath, and stepping sideways, drops into a crouch to stare at Castiel.

"Look at me." She waits, easily indicating she'll wait for as long as it takes, and sighing, he looks at her. "Next time you go deal with demons, you don't go alone. I wouldn't have let you past the wards if I'd know what the fuck you were planning to do. You even try…." She makes a face. "You told us the reason we trained in teams was because hunters always worked alone before and that wasn't enough anymore, not to fight a war. That includes you."

Castiel searches her face. "How on earth do you think you could have stopped me?"

"Break your ankle," she answers in surprise, and from his side comes a suspicious huff of laughter. "Left, where you broke your foot and cracked the bone. It'd be clean break, don't worry: no mobility problems later, but healing will be a bitch." Straightening, she glances at Dean. "Anything else?"

Dean shakes his head. "Tell Joe and Vera they're in charge forever?" She makes a dissenting noise. "Fine, until morning. Check in at midnight with me at Alison's, otherwise keep on keeping on."

"Got it." She grins with a playful salute before jogging back toward the end of the street. Castiel watches her a moment too long as she disappears from sight, and he feels himself lose control of the destruction, vicious satisfaction rushing through him as it anticipates the crater it will leave of Ichabod.

"No." Dean's left hand clamps down on his wrist, green eyes fixing on the imminent explosion before his right hand fists, and it compresses the moment before manifesting in something not unlike a nuclear explosion. For Dean, it's effortless, exerting his will with the unthinking expectation of obedience, and that's exactly what he gets; the debris, crumbles into fist-size rocks, the released energy contained and dissipated. "Don't fight it, Cas. It doesn't have the right to fight you, so stop giving it ideas."

The massive pressure he's been fighting eases as Dean methodically breaks the debris down further. "How--"

"Show it who's boss." He makes it look like nothing, shaping the chaotic power to his will. "You accept it--"

He swallows back nausea. "No."

"--and then you own it. Like this." The rocks crumble into pebbles before their eyes, arranging themselves neatly into a pile identical to those that Castiel created. All at once, the pressure vanishes, cowering away at the edges of his awareness, restless but passive. It still wants to be used, but it doesn't fight; it can't, obedient to Dean's will on its limitations, its use only at his pleasure. "There we go. Better?"

Castiel nods, drawing in a breath, and beside him, he feels Dean lean back against the building with a sigh, but the hand wrapped around his wrist doesn't loosen.

"I don't even remember how that felt then," Dean breathes into the silence, voice rough. "But I missed it anyway, all this time. How's that work? Like not being able to fly?"

He doesn't trust himself to answer, or pretend that Dean needs an answer at all.

"Deep breath, Cas," he adds in a more normal voice, resting his right arm on his upraised knees. "We got a few minutes before we need to work out what we're gonna do with this when we run out of Ichabod to destroy."

We. "Dean--"

"I'm not going anywhere," Dean says conversationally. "And neither are you. You can do this."

"You don't understand--"

"I don't care. You _are_ gonna do this," Dean corrects himself, fingers tightening brutally around his wrist. "Got it?"

He closes his eyes. "Every time I use it, the memories of how it was extracted are mine, everything that was done to a human's eternal soul on the rack. As if I were the one who--"

"I know."

Of course he does. "How am I supposed to live with that?"

"You'll find out by doing it," Dean answers bluntly. "Just like I did."

He still doesn't understand. "How do I--live with how you'll…" He stops at the break in his voice and tries again. "How am I supposed to live with what you'll see every time you look at me?"

Dean is silent, and a glance shows him surveying the destruction before them with the critical eye of someone who knows what it is and is evaluating the quality. Slowly, it dawns on him; Dean would have turned that same gaze on another demon administering punishment on the rack. Not would have: once upon a time, he did just that, Alistair's most accomplished pupil instructing others in their craft, studying their work, searching for flaws in extracting every moment of pain in administration as well as the whole.

"It'll be fine," Dean tells him, a ripple of something unfamiliar in his voice. "Nowhere else I want to be."

He doesn't have time to interpret that as the pressure returns, increasing incrementally with every moment that passes, testing. Dean's lack of response making it bolder, creeping closer to his consciousness

Dean's hand tightens painfully on his wrist. "Control it, Cas. Now."

Revulsion spirals through him, but he makes himself do it and has the horrified satisfaction of feeling it scramble backward, hovering watchfully. He focuses on shopping center to the east and feels it leap eagerly to obey, taking it apart to the foundation and sewer system beneath it almost effortlessly (a screaming soul on the rack slowly dismembered by inches by his own hands).

"That's it," Dean murmurs approvingly. "Keep going, let me think; what else...." He pauses. "I mean to ask--why is it warm over here?"

"I was cold," he answers flatly. "It responded by raising the temperature in my immediate vicinity before I realized what it was doing. Personal comfort seems to be a perfectly valid use." 

"And melted the snow," Dean says, nodding. "So why isn't the ground wet?"

"Because I didn't want to sit in a puddle of water, why--"

"Kansas is cold, and you personally aren't comfortable with it and would prefer it not be wet," Dean interrupts. "That should work, right?"

Castiel freezes a dematerializing neighborhood block four miles from their current location. "What?"

"The storm," he says. "Can you do anything about it?"

Startled, Castiel studies it, instinctively finding the natural formation of it and then the parts that have changed it from a pleasant snowy day--albeit very snowy indeed and for greater than one day--to a monster that still grows. "I can stop it."

"Good, then--"

"But only for a day," he continues, examining it carefully and finding nothing to improve his projection. "Maybe two, but I doubt it. Creation is out of balance, as I told you, or it couldn't have formed this quickly even with the backlash feeding it. And the backlash from the barrier will only grow worse until it falls. Before you ask, I can't dissolve it; even if I still had Grace, this would be beyond me."

"Right, that part I guessed." Dean is silent for a moment. "So what about a parlor trick?"

"A--" Castiel looks at Dean, who doesn't bother to hide the smug grin. "Oh."

"Don't dam the river," he says, grin widening. "Just make it go around one small part with a bubble whatever. The part with the people, by the way."

"I assumed as much." Castiel turns his attention back to the storm, thinking: a nice snowy series of days, as it was meant to be. "Like a strainer."

"Okay," Dean concedes after a moment. "So not as bad?"

"Yes, but only for six hours at most. That part is too far advanced, but after that--not bad at all, just very snowy. And cold, of course." For some reason, his mind now turns its attention to the barrier itself. He can't fix that, and while he can--perhaps--stop the things coming through with the power he has, not for long and not very much. And if he's right about what waits outside the barrier….

"Misborn?" Dean says, and Castiel belatedly realizes Dean is getting very good at this. "The thing outside the barrier Alicia was talking about?"

"Possibly," he prevaricates. 

"What are they?" Dean persists. "I've never heard of anything--they have another name?"

"No--at least, I doubt it, but perhaps I simply don't remember it yet--and at another time, I'll explain why, but for now…."

"Can Teresa's wards keep them out?"

"I don't know." He tries to concentrate on the storm, but once again, his mind returns to the barrier. He can't possibly construct one of those around Ichabod--even if he knew how--so why….

"Cas?"

"Teresa can't lock the wards around Ichabod," he hears himself say. "That's why she only did it to the daycare. Do you know why? It's not because she didn't want to."

"Uh, no," Dean answers slowly. "Now that we've established that obvious fact…."

"An enclosed space," he says. "It has actual walls--or buildings, in any case--and wards with a permanently defined perimeter always work better…that might work. At least better than what she has to do now."

Through his mind runs thousands of years of human architecture, the advances of defense and offense--and a bar in which all of the water was transmuted to the most ridiculously expensive and finest wine in all the world. 

"Cas, catch me up," Dean says. "What are you thinking?"

Hunters have been denied all but the most essential tools of their trade in their defense of humanity, left to discover what they could on their own. Like the sigils that defend them from gods and angels, however, the goal was never for humanity to learn all that they could, as was their right from the moment of their birth, to let them become whatever they could be by their own will; it was, is, was always supposed to be a way to limit them in their options, retard their progress, assure that when war came on earth and their Father's plan came to completion--

"--we can't defend ourselves," Castiel breathes, seeing the pattern of history before him that as an angel he could have seen but never thought to look. "Not anymore."

"Cas?"

Visualizing Ichabod as it is, he superimposes a dozen different possibilities, adjusting it to his exact specifications and slowly expanding it in the correct proportions: _there_. Fixing it into place in his mind, he takes in the whole and the individual parts for any flaw. 

"We need something new," he says, creating an invisible boundary around Ichabod from one street south of Baltimore to Seventh Street and another a quarter mile outside what was once this town's original city limits, snapping everything living between those boundaries into the inner circle, and making it impermeable, leaving a wide space ranging from fifty feet to three miles between the inner and outer circles.

"Cas?" Dean starts. "What are you--"

"Alison," he says, effortlessly finding her still-searching mind; doing it himself would be too dangerous even if he was still an angel. "I need you to do something: form in your mind the concept of 'stop'." Her acknowledgment is almost instantaneous. "You have it? On my word, think it to your entire current range." He takes a breath, making sure everything is ready. "Now."

"Jesus," Dean breathes, unaffected but startled by whatever he can sense through Castiel. "Did she just--"

"They'll be fine, just very surprised," he says dismissively, concentrating on the image in his mind; what he thinks he can make reality. The ground obligingly opens up in neat ten foot deep trench he widens to fifteen feet within the space between the two barriers, vanishing the earth for later use. "I could very much use a rib right now. But needs must: it must be something new, then."

Protecting all organic matter within the space between the two circles, Castiel shatters the quantum bonds of everything within into an undifferentiated mass , coalescing and holding it when it tries to escape: the structures he's already destroyed, asphalt, concrete foundations, a plethora of vehicles, all the remaining buildings marked red, he disrupts the very structure of matter to the very beginning, when Creation first began and nothing became something. The release of destructive energy he harvests quickly; it will take more than what Crowley forced on him to do this, but if one is to imagine, it should be done right.

"Holy _shit_!" Dean exclaims, startled. "Can you see this?"

"I can see all things." It's been millennia since anyone, even an angel, released power like this on earth, and never of this origin or for this purpose. It's appropriate, however; created of human suffering and human pain and human fear, it's fit that its use will be to prevent just that. "Though the visual spectrum is low on my priority list at the moment. What does it look like?"

Dean's voice is very soft. "Amazing."

He examines the idea again, looking for flaws, before building the entirety of human progress in his mind in a timeline, removes interference by the Host and various human-created gaps in their development, and sets the limits of technological advancement as it is now; if they can't reproduce it themselves, it's of limited future use. That doesn't narrow it down nearly as much as he worried it would, but abundance has its own disadvantages. Scrolling through the elements, he returns to the most basic.

"Graphene: let's start there." He builds the first possibility for the first test, then the next and the next, chaining and dissolving the bonds over and over, thousands of combinations tested in the blink of an eye until a stable form finally manifests, perfectly compliant with physics and human progress both. The properties are correct, verified in solid, liquid, plasmic, and gaseous forms, melting and boiling point: excellent. 

Carefully holding all in check, he visualizes what this will create, assuring form and function are satisfied, then takes everything he dissolved and builds the compound atom by atom, shaping it and setting it in place at the bottom of the trench and rising above the earth around them. 

"That should work," he murmurs, aware of Dean's shocked silence beside him. "Can you see it yet? How does it look?"

There's the sound of sudden laughter, and belatedly, Castiel realizes that it's Dean, as throughout Ichabod thousands of people abruptly emerge from the mental shock of a powerful psychic to look at it as well. He wishes it wasn't so dangerous to read their minds; he would like to know what they think of it.

* * *

He's not sure how long it takes (it's forever in here), but Dean's presence is constant; if he could, he'd shove him out and away, block him, make him leave. He doesn't want to, or Dean doesn't; he can't quite tell the difference anymore, and he doesn't actually care.

Weather is a problem, and not just because Castiel is no longer an angel. Creation is unbalanced, and the dramatic changes in weather and natural disasters are only symptoms of the fundamental problem; the Apocalypse set in motion chaos that Creation cannot entirely compensate for. The backlash strengthening it isn't the only problem; any interference now will set in motion a chain of events that he couldn't predict even if he could still see all that is and will be.

Setting Ichabod at center, he slowly builds not a dam but a bubble; instead of stopping it, it simply encourages it to slide passed it. It won't stop it all, of course, but enough to remove the greatest danger and a great deal of the lesser dangers involved in temperature, wind, and excessive snow. 

He saved it for last, part of his mind carefully working out the logistics depending on how much power he'll have at his disposal. The entire state no, but that was never a possibility, but there's sufficient for a radius of thirty miles from Ichabod's newly-created city limits, which will easily encompass the farthest checkpoint and most of the well-packed roads. A final check shows-- "They haven't reached the third road."

"Yeah, engine went out or something," Dean agrees, sounding startlingly normal. "Almost forgot--can you clear the rest?"

"I already did," he answers, removing all the snow in a thirty mile radius as well; the coming days will replace it, of course, but for at least a little while it will be a much easier walk. Excellent idea: unnumbered people will more easily arrive at Ichabod and among them others who may be under some compulsion and on seeing him might desire his death. 

Dean squeezes his wrist, which is grounding, but not enough.

Humans do this all the time; it may be the defining characteristic of the species. Right now, he doesn't have to endure their fear and dislike as the price he pays for being allowed among them, that they don't hesitate to betray even after payment's rendered; they can't find him now. It would be so easy right now, perhaps even kind: the barrier is falling, and they'll be hunted soon, perhaps even now, but a thought and he could--

"Get this done," Dean says softly.

Finish his work, yes: setting the thirty mile radius, he pours all that's left into it, and abruptly emerges back into the street, aware of Dean's hands on his shoulders and wondering what's wrong. 

Looking at Dean in bewilderment, he has just enough time to wonder what that expression means before he's abruptly vomiting and the rush of pain is almost enough to nearly make him black out. He forgot about that, and Dean doesn't know….anything. 

"Dean--" he manages, spitting out bile and trying to hold on to consciousness; how could he have forgotten? "He knows about you."

"Crowley?" He thinks he nods. "Fine, whatever, we'll deal with that later--Cas? What's going on with you?"

Yes, that. "Alicia."

"Alicia?" Vaguely, he realizes Dean's supporting him, hands gentle in contrast to the frantic anger and fear in his voice. "What about her--"

"Jeffrey," he gasps, hoping that's enough because he can't do anything now but scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Very dubious consent involving Castiel and Crowley due to impairment.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my defense, nothing went right the last week (and less the last couple of days), but I apologize; I didn't think this many things could go _this_ wrong that fast. I'm working all this next weekend--literally, there's a terrifying schedule--so next chapter goes up a week from Sunday. Thanks especially to WarKittens for checking my medical knowledge. It reads so much better when I have things like facts in there.

_\--Day 153--_

At half an hour past midnight, the storm's been going for twenty minutes, power's been off for over two hours, and Cas has been unconscious for just over three.

Dean ignores the knock on the door, eyes fixed on the too-still figure on the bed in a room lit by an entire box of soothingly-scented candles, competing scents of jasmine and sage and lemongrass and mint filling the room. Clarity, focus, serenity, inspiration, patience, strength, endurance--virtues all, he's sure, though he can't feel a single goddamn one.

"It's me," Vera says before coming inside and shutting out potential noise with the closed door, not that it matters; the storm hit just after midnight like fist to the face, stopping everything dead in its tracks. 

Those stationed at the checkpoints and those driving the buses refused to leave, running relay until it was impossible to see and taking up positions near each checkpoint to offer shelter to whoever could get there. Manuel and Teresa are out there with Hans, Anthi, and other members of Ichabod's patrol and civilian helpers, and so are Kamal's team and Sean's. Dean doesn't remember exactly what threats he shouted via walky-talky while they claimed interference, which is probably for the best; he's pretty sure none of them were the kind he could back up without a higher muscle mass and maybe some specialized equipment or something.

Vera goes through the motions, checking the IV line and the battery-powered monitors, pulse and oxygen and blood pressure and everything else you have to know when you have someone on a cocktail of fentanyl patches and a midazolam drip. Dean doesn't remember if she stopped to explain why--on a guess, she didn't waste time when he wasn't gonna listen--but he knows the second Cas stopped screaming. Alicia, pinning Cas to the bed like she did the guy in the infirmary, one hand on his forehead to keep his head still and eyes on her, just kept talking, voice hoarse, apparently at the tail-end of an honestly terrifying narrative of all the fun things they could do if they get some catapults or trebuchets or something (both, he thinks). Cas blinked as sense returned, looking startled and terrified and then he was out like a light. For the next twelve to sixteen hours, if Alicia's memories from Jeffrey are accurate on the time it takes for the step down from waves of agonizing pain that sent Cas into seizures twice before Vera medically wizarded it away. 

Making notes on the chart on the bedside table--a chart, on _Cas_ \--Vera lingers by the bed while he pretends not to know his militia is taking turns going out into the storm, fully-armed casual walk in a blizzard and in no way checking for strays or monsters. They just need some fresh air, and maybe, to get away from him. Which is fine; he gets it now, what Cas meant about breathing. 

"He's fine," Vera says abruptly, which Dean doesn't acknowledge because he already knows that. That thread's a rope right now, and he can feel the low, nearly subliminal hum of Cas's unconscious mind, no fear or distress or horror or revulsion or endless agony, just--rest. 

The abrupt drop after Cas burned out most of the shit Crowley gave him was the worst part, freefall with nowhere to land, and he hopes to God that Joe forgives him, for he really knows not what the hell he was doing. When Amanda showed him she could bench press him and probably a couple of demons by throwing him at Joe so she and the others could get to Cas, he's pretty sure he didn't deal with it well.

"It's--" She tightens her lips. "I've never seen him this still."

The pile of blankets and hot water bottles and whatever means Dean can't see his chest move; she's right, Cas isn't this still even sleeping and the monitors, what do they mean, they _beep_ …but inhale-long beat-exhale-long beat-repeat, that's real. He's grateful and everything, but Vera's kind of fucking with his listening here.

"There's something…probably should have told you this before," Vera is saying, and Dean looks up to tell her to get out when she adds, "I failed out of the nursing program."

Dean emerges from contemplating how to make sure that rope doesn't fade out with the rest--the thread thing was fine, but that was before he had this--and stares at her for a minute. "What?"

"Just the once," she explains, staring down at Cas, and even with the candles, he can't catch her expression. "Junior year, went to a rave, two hits of x and two days later woke up with a new tattoo and totally missed finals." She reaches down, arranging the blankets around Cas more securely, checking the IV line carefully. "Maybe--maybe if I hadn't been fucking off all year, they would have, you know, cut me some slack, but--I mean, when you're the one known for giving the best parties or knowing where they are, that doesn't cut it."

He stares at her, locked hair in the professional version of a messy knot, perfect posture, fresh scrubs over freshly washed clothes: ultra-competent, cranky nurse-doctor who treats impossible medical situations like personal insults to her intelligence…. " _You?_ "

"I barely made it through college." She hiccups a laugh. "I just test really well and I can interview like no one's business. And I know how to make the right friends."

Her hobbies are _sewing_ , Amanda's book club, and reading gigantic-ass medical books. New Year's Eve was the first time he ever even saw her _drink_. "You're fucking with me."

He gets the impression of a smile before she gracefully takes the chair beside him, tucking her feet underneath her. Looking at her, he tries to think 'party girl', but all he can see is Vera at that table in his room, surrounded by medical books and paperwork. "Nope."

He has no idea what to do with this. "Then how--"

"Begged, pleaded, talked to everyone, and made more of the right friends," she answers. "And they let me back in. Had to repeat the year, but whatever."

Dean frowns suspiciously. "Is this gonna be one of those inspirational stories?"

"Oh God no. I skidded by just like I had before but suspended my social life during finals. Mostly." He gapes at her. "Graduated at the bottom half of my class, but I did graduate."

"Like, what part of the bottom--"

"Numbers aren't important here," she says dismissively. "Anyway, did my time, got a specialization, got a regular job, made more friends, had the best parties, and eventually got my APRN because like I said, good tests, good interview, and very, very good friends."

"Do you--do you even like medicine?"

"You'd think I'd have asked myself that question at some point, wouldn't you?" She shrugs. "Nice job, fucking amazing apartment, great friends, great family, even a genuine black sheep in there no one would talk about at Thanksgiving--and a mysterious hookup who I met in the ER with the weirdest goddamn wounds I'd ever seen."

He straightens, almost losing his blanket. "Debra."

She smiles slowly. "Not gonna lie, I saw her come in and got myself assigned to her stat. I knew she was lying about how she got those that in retrospect were _claw marks_ \--and I still don't know what did it, but I narrowed it down a couple of years ago to not werewolf--but I stitched her up, got her antibiotics, and kept her overnight before asking her if she wanted to get some coffee. Best weekend of my life, by the way."

Despite himself, he feels himself smiling in return. "I always wondered what that was like from the other side."

"Mysterious," she says wryly. "I never knew if I'd see her again, much less when--but for about five years, every couple of months, she'd show up with a new weird injury that needed fixing and a new name for the chart followed by a weekend--or a very memorable week--in bed. Normal person probably would have wondered about that."

"A normal person," Dean tells her, "installs a new security system and changes the locks on their doors."

"Me, just made it better." Vera shakes her head ruefully, smile fading. "Nursing, career, it was just something I did. I wasn't bad at it, but I was just one of the nurses you see doing shit; my one claim to fame was my bedside manner, top marks across the board."

"Really?" Dean bites his tongue, but Vera can't even manage to maintain the offended expression a second before bursting into laughter. "Sorry, you're--fine, really. Really. Had worse, trust me."

She snorts, wiping her eyes. "I think about my professors sometimes. The entire potential speech, the do good in the world, all that. For over two years of my life after I came to Chitaqua, I kept thinking what they should have said is at some point in your life, you may need to know this because there will be no doctors, you're in a militia camp, and the patient has to be taught by trial and error that pain is not an inconvenience to be ignored but a possible--and his case absolutely definite--injury his nurse needs to treat."

Suddenly, Vera's records start to make a terrifying amount of sense, and they were terrifying _before_.

"And you don't know how to treat it," she adds tonelessly, and Dean stills. "Because you weren't paying attention in class. Or to do most obvious shit; I did time in the ER, all the departments on rotation, but I had the head nurse and a doctor there to tell me what to do, and it wasn't my responsibility to know why. So Darryl had books, genuinely a surprise; I stole them when he passed out, read most of the night, before I got a mission that took me to the library and walked out with everything I could hide under the seat of the jeep. About eight years of education I had to repeat, half the time while Cas was sitting there, personally offended by the concept of 'injury' and sincerely wondering if he really _needed_ all his toes or telling me how that ligament was really unnecessary to the human body. I had to know everything, from hunter first aid--which is nothing like the regular kind--to adhoc surgery with a local, I had to teach Cas to…." She trails off, a loose lock of hair falling to obscure her profile. "He's too still. He only does that when I'm working on him--had to teach him that, too, and use my elbow where it would do the most good when he didn't listen--but…."

Wrapping an arm around her, he tugs her head back onto his shoulder, stroking back the loose locks. 

"I never had monitors for him. Everything I had, I stole on missions, and it wasn't much," she whispers thickly. "I had to learn to watch him, every second, he was his own diagnostic machine for me, all of them. Six months, he came back from a mission I could see by the way he got out of the jeep whether there was something wrong and even guess where and severity. Pulse, blood pressure, respiration, I can do his stats by touch, I can check his actual pain level by the back of his neck and how he holds his shoulders--and he's under like five thousand blankets because we gotta keep him warm and that goddamn monitor won't shut up so I can hear him breathing and be sure everything's okay."

Tightening his hold, he turns his face into her hair; yeah, that would be it. "He's fine," he tells her roughly. "Promise."

"I know," she whispers back. "That's why I had Joe restraining you where I could see you--and that's the only reason you were in here, by the way, there's a reason relatives and loved ones aren't allowed in the same room when we're working. I needed you so I could be sure and get the dosage right." She turns her head to look at him, and Dean can see both the wetness around her eyes and on her cheeks as well as the smile. "Generally, when you're effectively putting someone in stage one anesthesia, you go to school for that for a few years to learn how to do it without killing them."

Dean stares at her for a long moment, then at Cas. "Uh."

"I was pretty sure I was right," she adds. "But you almost passing out was helpful, thanks."

He's gotta say something here. Something….with words. "Huh."

"Before you called me here," she continues in a different voice, "I'd just finished cleaning up from an emergency C-section; not Sudha," she says quickly when he stiffens. "She's fine, still walking it off. One of the refugees, literally the last off the last bus already in distress, had to move fast, baby's fine, boy, Apgar 8, 9, seven-twelve and nineteen inches. Before that, I set two broken arms, wrapped a badly sprained ankle, treated six fevers cause maybe anything but two are probably flu, checked on a pneumonia, and consulted on six other cases, including _Dolores's_ which makes no sense. I assisted Karl and Lewis with triage and was suturing people right in their chairs, didn't even think about it. I'm in surgery tomorrow afternoon for a questionable appendix that's making me and Dolores very nervous and is being watched very closely tonight. Dolores is worried about actual surgery because she only assisted years ago; I haven't even done that much, and I'm not worried at all." She looks up at him soberly. "What you asked, if I liked medicine? I do, yeah. When I grow up, I want to be a doctor. Save the world one patient at a time, what do you think?"

Dean grins. "Pretty sure you already are."

She starts to laugh, curling closer, and Dean can't help joining in. After a few seconds, she sighs, lifting her head slightly, and Dean starts to let go, but she just adjusts the position of his shoulder (along with him) before settling back down. "Comfortable?"

"Yeah, thanks." Blowing out a breath, she watches Cas for a long moment. "I don't know her anymore. She wouldn't have prepped a patient for a C-section while checking two charts for Karl, she wouldn't have had a circle of people watching her while she narrated how to make the first incision, she wouldn't have…she wouldn't have known enough to do it or even think she could. I mean, amazing apartment and the job and the parties and the mystery hookup--it wasn't a bad life, don't get me wrong, it was great. But--when I think about--I can't imagine living it anymore. It was--it's a nice life for someone, but I don't fit there at all. I don't even want to. I'd go crazy even trying."

He catches his breath, swallowing hard. 

"It sounds stupid, I know," she starts.

"It doesn't." Reaching for the blanket, he pulls it over them both, and watches Cas. "It makes perfect sense."

* * *

"Dean," Joe says on opening the door and disturbing he and Vera's competitive count of how many times Cas breathes per minute, which doesn't mean she wins but he already knows she's gonna say she did, "we got a problem."

"Off-duty," Dean reminds him.

"Library and YMCA." Dean twists around in his chair; he doesn't need light to guess Joe's expression. "Two incidents, ten, maybe fifteen minutes apart."

James's team was at the library tonight. They did a shift with his team before taking Nate to join the repair crew frantically getting the library ready for habitation and helping the volunteers organize the refugees. Nate was still checking rooms when Dean stopped by; sure, this could end with a mysterious increase in the number of rooms in the library, but that's all to the good; they could use the space.

"James--"

"He and Zack are downstairs," Joe says, and Vera twists around. "Nate and Mira are fine, but they're helping Naresh's people keep everyone calm at the library while Naresh wakes up everyone he can to help. Most of the ones awake were already at the YMCA, so…."

"Stay with Cas," Dean says reluctantly to Vera, sliding out from under the blanket as Vera takes his chair and following Joe out the door and toward the stairs. "How long until the power's back anyway?"

"We're only ten minutes past the five hour limit," Joe says reassuring, and Dean is reassured except for the fact he's one of the few (two, including Alison) who know the estimate was four hours and his only regret is he's among those who know that.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Dean sees a shaken James and even more shaken Zack waiting by the desk where Rachel's under a mound of blankets looking worried. "Report."

"No idea what happened," James says, voice hoarse, like he's been shouting, and Dean can see familiar dark stains on the worn sweater beneath his unzipped coat. "Mira said everyone seemed fine--well, fine as…."

"I get it," Dean says soothingly. "Then?"

"A fight started," James answers. "Mira says she heard the argument start on the other side of the room while she was helping settle some kids and was making her way over, then suddenly one had a gun and shot at the other guy, and like that, ten others started attacking him, too. Then more--she said she got a couple disarmed and then it stopped." James looks at him helplessly. "Just--stopped, no reason, just like it started."

"Anyone killed?"

James nods shortly, and Dean takes in Zack's faintly glazed look and James' trembling hands, and turns to look at Rachel. "Rache, we have any coffee?"

"Upstairs," she says, raising an eyebrow; 'upstairs' means 'the break room with no windows' where everyone's waiting out the lack of electricity and storm in a citrus and passionfruit haze and sometimes even actually sleeping instead of pretend to. He nods: might as well let everyone hear this when he does, since he's going to be sending them to help.

"You two, go up with Rachel," Dean says, cutting off James' protest. "I'll be right behind you; faster I can hear it all, faster we can deal with it."

Dean watches them go up and goes to lock the front door--does have some really, almost unnecessarily good locks and an amazing bolt just above his head, interesting--already knowing what Joe's gonna say. "Dean--"

"I can't go, I know." This time, at least, he doesn't need to be told why; if this is repeat-one of the mess (twice), they've confirmed Alicia being creepily right on most if not all points and also something new; whatever it is might be spreading. It's not that he's the most dangerous person from Chitaqua (Cas), or even the most dangerous human (Amanda); he's just the one they (sometimes) obey, along with the rest of the only _comparatively_ less dangerous members of his militia. "I'm sending everyone else--"

"Except for Rachel," Joe says, "not because you need protection," it's totally because they all think he needs protection, "but because you're off-duty for a reason. Besides, blizzard. I can update you as often as you want."

"Storm will be gone by dawn." Dean scowls at Joe's significant look toward the stairs. "Fine. Let's get their report so we can get started."

* * *

Vera's copperplate handwriting even under stress isn't a judgement on him or anything, but it feels like it. "I'm wearing a walky-talky," she says as he skims down the (unsettlingly long) list of what to do if this happens and on the back of the page (the back) is a numbered list of what looks like descriptions of--conditions? "If anything happens, first rule--"

"Don't panic."

Pausing in pulling on a heavy sweater, she grins at him. "Yes. Max it'll take me to get back is ten minutes by jeep, and there is nothing--and I do mean nothing--that I can't walk you through over walky-talky if I'm delayed; list is right there, just give me the number corresponding to the problem. The only real worry I have is the very remote possibility the stress of whatever that shit is doing to him causes cardiac arrest--"

Dean almost drops the paper. "A _heart attack_?"

"Not likely at this point," she says reassuring. "Now, I showed you how to give him the next dose, which is right there by the aquamarine candle of happiness," she says, pointing to the folding table by the bed, where everything's laid out in some kind of Vera-specific order (along with a selection of blue and green candles). "If he gets agitated, or wakes up enough to start moving, just put a hand on his chest and apply firm pressure--Alicia's method works faster, but she was an EMT and knows how not to break ribs--give him that and call me immediately."

He actually didn't think to wonder about that. "How was she holding him down anyway?" 

"She wasn't," Vera says distractedly before meeting his eyes. "Okay, look at me."

Dean scowls. "I am."

"And pay attention," she says, voice serious. "Things to know, and you probably have guessed by now if you didn't before; Cas takes injuries as insults."

Oh yeah. "I know."

"Yeah, no, you _think_ you know," she answers. "He won't admit it, but he does, actually, think mortality and the human condition exist to fuck with him. 'If your right eye offend thee, pluck it out?' He would do it if he could, just on principle."

Dean shuts his mouth.

"Exactly," she says, grinning maliciously. "Your job--that you've chosen to accept, and did I congratulate you on your--"

"Don't," he snarls, "say it."

"--broadened horizons?" she finishes smugly. "Anyway, with Cas, your job is to remind him you only get the one mortal body, you can't get a better one--and his is _just fine_ \--so it's best to care for this one correctly. If he tries to tell you about how superfluous something is--fingers, toes, muscle groups--"

"You're kidding."

"I'm not. Remind him one, infected zone, two, he's a wanted fugitive, and three, no. Not that he'll be arguing tonight, but context." Dean's still absorbing his own horrified lack of surprise when she adds, "Call me. You're not sure, call me. Any reason is fine, just call me. And I'll be checking in regularly, okay?"

He nods absently and is abruptly being--holy shit, she's hugging him before she's on her way to the door so both of them can more easily pretend that didn't just happen. 

After a moment, Dean pulls the chair up to the bed and sits down, settling himself to listen.

* * *

Dean's still thinking about Joe's last update--rooms secured, people calmed, infirmary for some, first aid for others, bodybags for a chosen few--when he's out of the chair and by the bed just in time to hear the first hitch of Cas's breath. Doing the math Alicia told him on the step down one more time--also on a convenient piece of paper he doesn't need--he knows no matter how much he wants it to be different, it's way too damn early. He memorized Vera's instructions, but he calmly sets them under the light of three candles as he calls Vera on the walky-talky, sliding the corded earpiece in his ear.

"Of course it's now," Vera says venomously, and in the background, he can hear screaming, moaning, what sounds like half of goddamn Ichabod injured. "Honest answer, Dean: can you do it or you need me there?"

He wants her here. "I can do it."

"You can't do this wrong," she lies, because when it comes to things that fall under first stage anesthesia, he's pretty sure doing it right is what they have to train you how to do. "Okay, I can work and talk, so let's get started. Get his stats--"

"He's waking up!"

"It's gonna take a while, and he won't remember anyway," she answers calmly. "Midazolam is also a hypnotic, inhibits new memory formation, there's a reason I picked it. Now, breathe. We have time to do this right, Dean, so we're going to take it. Pulse, blood pressure, temperature: go."

Hands perfectly steady, Dean does as he's told with the kit Vera left on the table, listening to Cas's breathing hitch, another slight increase in speed, reporting everything with a voice that sounds exactly like his own. The background roar of wherever she is (YMCA? Library? Infirmary?) quiets as if by magic, the quickening of Cas's breath all he can hear. "Vera, he's--"

"He sounds distressed, I know," she says calmly. "He's fine, this is perfectly normal. Better, actually. Cas doesn't like sedatives, he fights them, and sometimes even wins. He can't against this one, but he's still gonna try. It'll be fine, I promise."

"How do you know?" he snaps, and in horror he sees his right hand is shaking, almost dropping the thermometer. Putting it down, he flattens it on the bed and sees Cas's eyelids flicker, the tiny movements that mean he's going to wake up and start screaming and Dean can't _can't_ handle hearing that again. "You're not even here!"

"Because you're still talking normally," she answers, and distantly, he hears what sounds like Dolores saying something about stitches. "Yeah, Karl nailed it, bandage and go." Then, to Dean, "Now look at my numbered list, start with one, and tell me what you see: go."

Fisting his right hand, he picks it up with his left, sitting on the edge of the bed, unreasonably comforted by the mound of blanketed Cas against his hip. Reading the list out loud--because Vera--he says no to each one--he checks each that he can; gums are fine (pinkish), skin isn't clammy to the touch, fingernails and toenails aren't blue or grey, no problems with airway or breathing ("I know it's faster," Vera says calmly. "It's a good thing, trust me."), and pupils are responsive to the penlight. 

Dean puts the penlight away but keeps a hand on Cas's forehead; it's not only him that feels better doing that. 

"Dean?" Vera says sharply, and he remembers she's still there.

"His breathing--it slowed down." A little, anyway: even Dean can tell Cas is either starting to feel it, or is going to very soon. "Okay, now what?"

There's a short pause. "Now we're gonna put him back down, and before you say it, we're well within recommended dosage. Cas is still in a human body, just a non-standard one, and we're resilient as fuck. Now, before we start, how cold is the room now?"

What the hell? "Uh." He's not sure, but 'chilly' wouldn't be a terrible way to describe it, now that he's paying attention. "Not freezing?"

"Even covering the windows isn't going to help much longer," she says, almost to herself. "Okay, take off your boots now, or unlace them, whatever. Before we start: when we're done and Cas is going back down, strip down as much as you're comfortable with, and get in bed with him."

Dean nearly loses the corded earpiece; that sounds like a deceptively awesome plan, so he has to have heard it wrong. "What?"

"Body heat," she answers succinctly. "We don't have heat or electric blankets, and the foil blankets can only do so much. He's lost some already from checking him and he's gonna lose more when we replace the patches. Much like ice baths in your cabin with a literal tub, we're going old school in keeping Cas warm. Not gonna lie, it's gonna feel weird with someone who's down as far as he's is--"

"I don't care." Dean grabs his coat and drops it on the floor before easing out of his boots, tossing his belt as well, and unbuttoning the flannel one handed for quick removal later. "All right, what now?"

"Pick up the needle by the bed; the dosage is the same as the one earlier," she answers. "There's a second beside it; we probably won't need it, but it never hurts to be prepared. Don't touch that one. Check the labels--I put a blue sticker on the one we're using."

Nodding (she can't see it, but he feels better), he picks it up and takes a deep breath, checking for the blue sticker three times--still blue, awesome--and says, "Got it. Where did you get stickers?"

"Cas's map supplies," she answers. "I labeled everything earlier in case of emergency, and glad I did. You saw where I put it in the IV? Just slide it in and depress the plunger, no sudden movements, just easy. And before you panic, there's a second IV in the corner behind you, all ready to go in case you mess up."

Dean snorts as he tentatively picks up the fragile-looking IV line, almost surprised by the tough material and feeling like an idiot; this isn't his first time at the goddamn IV rodeo here. 

"Alicia said you did a great job helping her out after Jeffrey," Vera tells him quietly. "There's nothing about this you haven't done or watched me do with you, remember?"

Depressing the plunger, Dean carefully removes it, discarding the needle in the wastebasket and wondering if he should have grabbed gloves and then wondering why the hell he's worried about that.

"Nice and easy," Vera says after talking to someone where she is. "You're fine, Dean. It's always going to be harder when it's someone you care about, that's why it's not recommended we treat loved ones."

"I never had this problem with Sam," he says before he can stop himself.

"Of course not," Vera says with a ripple of laughter in her voice, and he finds himself wondering what the hell she's doing; the vague, wet sounds are creepy as hell. "Once, Merry came in to my ER with an open head wound and concussion from an unfortunate incident with a ladder and a potted plant, don't ask, I never worked out what the hell she thought she was doing. Drove herself to the ER, of course, because my sister does shit like this. I lectured her the entire time I was checking her and suturing her up. Siblings are part of you; when you're close, when you know them, it's like taking care of yourself." She's quiet for a long moment, and Dean doesn't think it's entirely whatever the hell she's doing. "Sorry. I--I'm guessing that's not something you like to talk about."

Cas said that, too, he remembers, and then it hits him; she's talking about the Sam who's Lucifer's willing vessel, not Sam who is in another world, sure, but perfectly safe and only said yes to Lucifer because it was part of a plan. Who never--and Dean knows this--would have said yes otherwise; he would have killed himself first. 

"No, it's fine. We were close, yeah." Tugging the container of patches closer, he reaches out to rest a hand on Cas's forehead; cool but not clammy, probably losing body heat but fine. "I took care of Sam for years. Knew how to suture before I knew all my states. Barely got my GED."

"I don't think I could recite all the states," Vera admits with a giggle--a _giggle_ \--while Dean's still working out why he told her that. "Amanda got hers when she was nineteen, she told me. For a job, but it's under her legal name, I think."

"That sounds about right." Watching Cas for any problems (depressed respiration, waking up, changes in color, the list goes on), he hears himself say, "Sam was about to graduate from Stanford, go to law school. Before--you know, shit happened."

"It does that." There's another pause, then Vera says, "Okay, let's do the checklist again, make sure everything's in order." Going through the now-familiar (ish) steps, Dean watches Cas carefully, but while his breathing's still a little fast, it's slowing again, and everything is proceeding almost eerily right, which Dean trusts not at all. The manual ventilator is on the other side of the table, along with the neatly labeled boxes of different medications, unused but ready for action. "Now the patches. Remove the old ones first, toss 'em, then add the new ones. They're self-adhesive; just put them near the others, this is not an exact science and doesn't need to be."

When he's done, he sits back on the edge of the bed, he runs through the checklist again, and waits out the fifteen minutes listening to the weirdly soothing sound of Vera handling an unsettling variety of problems. "What are the casualties?"

"No final count yet," she answers soberly, and he hears the sound of running water. "Five DOA from the library, thirty-eight from the YMCA, thirty-two total injures, but only about four serious, and one died on the way to the infirmary. Which," she adds thoughtfully, "is weird."

"Everything about this is weird."

"No, I mean…" She makes an annoyed sound. "Mira described it like a miniature mob turning on this guy, shots fired and everything, but only maybe a quarter of the people in the room participated and almost no bystander injuries. Dean, the volunteers didn't have exact numbers, but we're talking about over five thousand people in the YMCA and at least two thousand in the library. Even if we didn't have suspected compulsion going on, under these kind of conditions I'd expect something like this to happen; this is people being people and some armed. It's not that it happened, it's where and the results."

Dean reviews his memories of Joe's updates as he checks Cas's pulse again, discarding his flannel while he's at it. "Only one room in each building."

"Exactly. The YMCA has a basketball court and an empty swimming pool, both of which are filled with people; the library has a ton of open space, or did, since it's now filled with people. But both of these happened in isolated rooms. Mira said the one in the library--storage or something--was just opened up for occupation and wasn't close to being filled. These people are exhausted; Mira said half in that room were almost asleep when it started."

Dean nods, retrieving his weapons and placing them in easy reach from what will be his side of the bed. "What are you thinking?"

"My experience in compulsions is barely theory," she says. "So let me ask an expert--how consistent are they? Forced behavior: you do action 'x', noncompliance causes you to do 'y', is it that simple across the board?"

Dean thinks about it as he finishes his preparations. "Not sure. If this is a compulsion, anyway; Alicia said 'coercive', and that's a lot bigger field." And now he's got a nasty thought. "We don't even know how many actually have whatever it is, or how they got it, or--"

"Could be anyone," Vera interrupts and he hears the water turning off. "Okay, on my way back now."

Startled, Dean straightens. "You're done?"

"It's an hour until dawn and Dolores just ordered me out of her ER until I have a note from you that I've slept," Vera answers in amusement. "Everything's pretty much at done or wait and see. Just close my last gunshot and update my charts. Now, get in bed and get him warm. I'm going to pick up a couple of saline bags; anything you need?"

Dean looks around the dark room and swallows; no electricity. "Any ETA on power?"

"You would have heard if we had," she answers. "Get in bed, Dean. Don't worry if you fall asleep," he snorts, which makes her laugh, "you need it."

"See you in a few," he answers, clicking off the channel and checking the others as he eases out of his jeans and removes the thermal before kicking everything under the table and quickly climbing into bed, teeth starting to chatter. Not freezing, but definitely really goddamn cold.

Diving beneath the pile of blankets gratefully he maneuvers through them until he can feel Cas beneath the crinkle of foil and wool and the quilt from their bed at Alison's (he's definitely going to see what they can trade for that, soon). Curling up against Cas's cool body, stretching out to hit as much skin as possible, he focuses on the sound of Cas breathing, sets the walky-talky in easy hearing distance, and waits for Vera to show up.

* * *

Dean's not entirely sure what wakes him up, though on a guess, having Joe staring at him from a few feet away may be responsible. Untangling himself from the blankets, he automatically checks on Cas, though Alicia curled up in the closer chair with a folder in her lap reminds him of the dawn changeover so Vera could get some sleep.

"Do you sleep?" he asks her, rubbing his eyes. 

"I do," she says virtuously. "Five hours, between my shift at the infirmary yesterday and midnight, ask Matt."

"I will," he says, and sees Joe still--looking weird--and is as awake as he's ever been in his life. "What? More incidents, power plant blow up, zombie attack, Croat attack, demons, abominable snow monster?" 

Joe and Alicia exchange a really questionable look before Joe says, "No, no, no, no, no, and no--"

"What's the ETA on power?" he asks, sliding out of bed and hissing at first contact with the freezing floor--where are his socks? In bed, dammit. Finding his and Cas's bags in the corner, Dean pulls out the first things that look vaguely warm. Also, the lights are on and it's not freezing in here. "Oh, we have power. What time is it?"

"Hour before noon. Power came on around the time the blizzard stopped," Joe says impatiently. "Boots are over here, can you hurry?"

Scowling, Dean drags on his jeans and shirts, grabbing a flannel at random--glad he packed all of 'em--and a pair of socks, circling around to sit on the edge of the bed to drag them on. "You wanna be less mysterious?"

"Yeah, I do," Joe answers, and there's a note in his voice Dean's never heard in his voice before. "Which I'm going to need your help with. Let me get your coat."

"He brought coffee," Alicia offers, reaching over to retrieve a thermos from the table as Dean stamps into his boots. "Stop being weird, Joe."

"Being _weird_ \--" Joe starts incredulously.

"People are so weird about change, you know what I mean?" Alicia asks, and Joe's face turns red beneath the short beard. "It's all good," she says brightly. "I'll wait with Cas; doing fine, by the way."

Dean just avoids Joe stuffing him into his coat--what the hell?--and takes the thermos gratefully, unscrewing the top and taking a drink as he checks Cas with (sort of) experienced eyes. "Be right back."

"I doubt it," she says cheerfully. "No worries: I got it under control. Did I mention I really want a catapult? We could make one."

Then Joe's physically pulling him out the door and okay, fine, what the hell? Dean manages to slow down the breakneck pace down the stairs and frowns when he sees the front desk is empty, chair halfway to the wall behind it, and both doors are wide open. "Hey, where's--"

"Where everyone else in the world is," Joe snaps, fingers digging into his arm warningly, and Dean figures crazy people and goes along with it, going through the endless stupid alcove and out into--wow, street's kind of crowded. And--

Stopping short, Joe turns him and pushes his head up until he's looking at the churning grey warning that is the sky--oh. "Huh."

"Storm eased off about half an hour after dawn," Joe says. "Huge surprise, by the way--"

"Yeah, that," Dean starts.

"--and then we got power and heat, so kind of distracted, right? Right. It's a little dark, fine. And then someone finally looked up," Joe finishes, following Dean's gaze upward. "And saw that."

Dean takes a drink of coffee as he gazes at that; even in the snow-cloud gloom, he can see a barely-there iridescent sheen like mother of pearl in an oyster shell, hovering just beneath the angry swirl of clouds, sudden sparks of bright color chasing themselves across the surface every time they come into contact with the grey.

"Dean?"

"About a week," he says, taking another drink. "Lots of snow, though, couldn't help that part. That should be enough; once the backlash stops, it'll break apart anyway, so--"

"Dean," Joe says flatly, and startled, he meets Joe's eyes. " _Cas_ stopped the blizzard?"

"No, too--it's like a dam and a huge river," he explains to Joe's blank expression. "Too much to hold back for long. More like a--filter. So just snow. Cool, huh?"

Joe shuts his mouth, looking--yeah, no idea. 

"What's the problem?" he demands, taking another drink. "Told you last night, should be cleared up around dawn."

"I'll give you that one," Joe says after a way too long pause and Dean realizes he's fighting back a grin. "My bad, I should have taken your one single comment on it as literal truth. And the other thing?"

"What?"

Joe points down the street. "That."

Dean drops his thermos. "Holy. Shit."

* * *

Here's the thing: Dean's memories are kind of--weird--when it comes to details on this--thing. He doesn't think he can be blamed with everything else that happened to be unclear on certain--facets--since he had the key points down. Mostly.

Key point: very useful for defense of a growing town and something about history and--tensile strength? Non-reactive something.

Unclear facet: it's a wall. 

A really, really, _really_ big wall. Around Ichabod.

Armed with a refilled thermos via Joe after checking on Cas ("Still down," Alicia tells him cheerfully, looking up from--is that a library book? About…. " _Hoaxes, Myths, and Manias: Why We Need Critical Thinking_ ," she says, showing him the cover. "Did you know shrinking genitals are a thing?" He didn't and wishes he didn't now. "Couldn't find any Waller, what can you do?" she asks, like he said something and not just stared at her in horror. "Go away. Get fresh air. See if they got ladders yet? What are your feelings on catapults again?"), Dean makes his way through the now less crowded street to the presumptive--front gate thing?--just past Third of what is apparently the newly fortified city of Ichabod, because when he and Cas talked about fortified cities on New Year's, it really, really stuck. 

Looking up the twenty-four foot height with a sense of unreality (Christ, big), Dean takes a long drink of coffee and waves up at the bewildered looking citizens walking on top (walkway?) just behind the three foot-high--lip?--not unlike that which surrounded the roof they'd been sitting on when New Year's Day began. Cas is apparently safety-conscious even when crazy; no one's gonna trip and fall to their death without making an effort to do just that. 

He can't nail down the color exactly, drifting between a dark, sandy off-white (maybe?) and a weird silvery grey, a little like unpolished granite, come to think, but with a faint, nearly-indiscernible sheen that reminds him of volcanic rock. He can't be sure--snow clouds, lack of sun, iridescent dome, not enough coffee, _giant wall_ \--but there's a vague sense it might just--fuck his life--glint when exposed to direct light in a way not unlike a sparkle. Glitter: of fucking _course_ it'll glitter. This is his life, after all: brownie bites, crazy ex-angel partner, crazy militia, town the destination of choice for a massive Kansas-specific migration, and surrounded in goddamn _glitter_.

Turning his attention to the tall, wide archway--excellent size for a gate or hell, a drawbridge, and right, more coffee now--his gaze travels helplessly toward the nearby people industriously deciding the better part of valor is not to question the wall, but to build a gate (door?) for it, or that's what he assumes the giant slats of wood and steel beams they're working on are supposed to eventually become. The noise from the tools and talking is loud, but apparently not loud enough, especially when Alison appears beside him, wearing fingerless gloves and clutching a thermos like it's her only hope of sanity. She's also holding a piece of paper that--wait, is that a _drawing_ of the wall?

"Cas still out?" she asks, and he appreciates the courtesy, since from her expression, she knows that already. Seeing his face, she shrugs. "The box is drifty, but nothing like…you know." 

"Yeah." No reason to think about that too hard; that way lies how many ways Crowley's gonna suffer for that and he's in triple digits and barely getting started. "Alicia says about six hours before he's awake. Teresa and Manuel?"

"Fine," she says with a smile, eyes distant for a minute. "They and Neer and a couple of others are placing the new wards directly on the wall. She said with a permanent object to ground them on--that surrounds the town--we can get the line extended maybe fifty feet out or something, which she really liked."

"Cool," he says, taking a drink and looking at wall, trying to take it in again and failing. It surrounds the _town_.

"Tony says two of the gates should be ready in a couple of hours," she tells him as they both watch not-entirely-blasé-but-trying patrol teams escort groups of exhausted, shivering people into Ichabod through the opening--from here, he's estimating the thickness at ten feet, which granted, is a long way to go without noticing you're walking through a cavern of--wall substance, did Cas even give it a name? 

Then, "Two?"

"Yeah, two," she says with relish. "Of four gates. Six doors--doorways, I guess? Wait--" She consults the paper, and craning his neck, Dean realizes it's not just a drawing, it has _labels_. "Postern doors. So we can easily get to the fields without opening the gates, I assume."

"Where'd you get that?" he asks, craning his neck to read it. The top of the wall is a--walkway (got that all by himself), which is protected by a--battlement (really?) on the outer side and…nothing on what to call the inner, crap.

"Derek," she says, taking another drink. "Hit the books this morning like the fist of a really enthusiastic god of Renfaires past." She pauses for another long drink, eyes traveling back up to the people currently walking twenty feet above their heads, tipping her head sideways. "Only surprise is the lack of turrets. A couple of towers, maybe….." she trails off. "Ran out of material, I guess."

"Fortified cities."

"Yeah, that makes sense," she agrees with the calm of someone who's learned to just go with it. "You know Tony already had to argue how a drawbridge would be pointless because we don't have a moat? Ask me what Derek wanted next?"

Dean closes his eyes for another drink.

"Here," she says, thrusting her thermos into his hand. Frowning, he almost asks why until he recognizes the smell and gulps a swallow without flinching. There's definitely coffee somewhere in there, but the whiskey definitely adds to the flavor. Coughing his abject gratitude, he hands it back, staring up with watery, approving eyes at the history of the world of defense stuffed into a single fucking amazing wall. "Before you ask, yes."

"I have no idea what I was going to ask." There are so many questions, after all, and none he actually wants to ask out loud.

"We're still getting the figures, but 'big' would be about right. All the town including the--what used to be the east side, most of the winter pasture, barns, power plant, oh, the training field too, it's fine, no cars blocking it now--Tony said it's hard to calculate an ellipse and then told me what an ellipse is, since it's been a little while since geometry class." She pauses, eyes glazing. "Goes underground, too."

"Yeah, about ten feet, I think." They did talk about demons burrowing under salt lines, after all. "So Cas was thorough."

"Anything attacking us trying to dig their way in will have some problems, yeah. Ten feet? Tony was wondering. "She stops short, licking her lips. "So the storm?"

"Yeah." He takes another drink, understanding how she feels right now; every time he tries to think about it too hard, his mind stutters to a stop. "It's a filter. Just snow. It'll last about a week, but by then--storm should break up or something."

"Right." Alison takes a deep breath. "I don't believe in miracles. I don't, they're bullshit, there's no--yet here I am, looking at a wall beneath blizzardless skies. I’m dealing with the dissonance, but come on."

"Here," he says sympathetically, giving her back her thermos and watching her take a long drink. 

She's quiet for a moment, dark eyes are nearly unreadable. "I'm getting the feeling some of the people who arrive aren't gonna want to leave for a while, so we're gonna need the space."

Dean lets out a breath between his teeth; yeah, he can see the attraction of a _walled town_. Very popular for the average person wanting not to die, yeah. "Alison--"

"Not your problem," she interrupts, still staring at the wall. "It's mine."

"Doesn't mean we won't help." He's not sure what the hell he can offer; he's not going to help drag people outside the walls--because Ichabod has walls now, really _big walls_ \--when this is over. She wouldn't ask him for that, of course, but it's not like they have a lot of other skillsets. She gives him an incredulous look which abruptly melts into something far too thoughtful for his peace of mind. "What?" Oh God, he hopes he was wrong about her asking.

"How do you feel about rounding up wild livestock from around Kansas?" She frowns at his expression. "What, it's beneath you to do as our ancestors did and herd shit? If they don't wanna go back, fine, but in the rush to get here, they might have left some things behind. Like livestock and extra food. After this is over, we're doing a major roundup of supplies, and we could use your help."

"Oh, yeah." Dean has no idea how you herd livestock, but he could swear he saw a movie once about guys taking cows somewhere. "We can do that."

"Good." She turns her attention back to the wall, looking less like she's wondering if life just hates her more than everyone else and more--glee?

"Alison?"

"Walter got the power up as soon as the blizzard stopped--they couldn't get to one of the thingies, don't ask me what that is, no idea--and it was stable on the first try. We got two people with him now, he won't leave the plant but gotta sleep, so they're watching the dials, everything's working." She looks at him, eyes dancing. "Dissonance dealt with. Oh, Tony wants to talk to you; he's near Fifth, I think."

Dean nods, then backtracks: after this is over. "So you think we're gonna survive this." Whatever it is.

"Oh yeah," Alison agrees. "I got a snowy week, a militia of hunters, nine streets of electricity, and a walled city. No way am I missing what comes next." Her eyes rest on the future gate speculatively. "Come on, don't you want to see what Walter will make for towers? He was muttering about that before he fell asleep at the plant, and I gotta see that."

"A drawbridge would be cool," he admits, wondering how you get a moat anyway.

"God," she answers sincerely. "I _know_."

* * *

Finding Tony isn't hard; apparently, sleep is for people not him, but at least he's stationary, and from the look of the members of city services, is being watched to make sure he stays that way. Sitting a few feet from the wall off Fifth Street in a lawn chair by a table with what looks like draft paper taped to it, he oversees city services scurrying around and sips from a thermos of coffee.

Looking around, it occurs to Dean a lot of people are out today, and sure, he doesn't recognize everyone from Ichabod on sight, still. 

"Hey," he says, and Tony jerks his gaze from contemplation of the wall to grin at Dean. "So--" He's not sure what goes here. "How's it going?"

"Making sure I'm not hallucinating," Tony says genially, waving at the table, where Dean sees a giant piece of draft paper taped covered in sketches--the wall?--and fuck knows but some of it isn't numbers or letters. Also, he notes in interest, a copy of Derek's Parts of a Giant Wall, and hey, where can he get a copy? "I need more coffee. You?"

His thermos is empty, so. "Okay."

Nodding toward the north corner of Fifth Street a few feet away, Dean follows his gaze and sees the crowd is gathered around--oh, a coffee bar. Well, row of coffee _tables_ , on which are several coffee makers the likes of which Cas will definitely be taking back to Chitaqua one way or another, and a plethora of mismatched cups piled up in boxes behind several unnaturally cheerful people in a variety of coats. As they join the line, a casual glance back by someone in front of them sets off a sudden flurry of whispering, and to Dean's horror, an aisle abruptly opens up in front of them. 

Before Dean can say anything--seriously, what?--Tony sighs, grabbing his arms and moving them to the front, where two teenagers wait with wide-eyed anticipation, taking Tony's and Dean's thermoses for fast refill. 

"Black's fine," Dean says helplessly when he realizes they're waiting for instruction, taking the thermos back and clutching it to his chest as a quietly chuckling Tony leads him away, followed by murmured "Dean Winchester, are you sure?" and "You're kidding? That was _him_?" and something a lot like squealing. 

"What was that?" Dean hisses to Tony, who smiles indulgently at him.

"The lifeblood of civilization," he answers. "Gossip and a lot of it."

"About?"

"The Croat attack a few weeks ago and Chitaqua's role, of course," Tony explains as they pass the gatemakers. One of them is involved in explaining to everyone the historic uses of defensive walls around cities throughout time (not accurate at all), and something about Mongols. "New people to tell the stories to, that kind of thing."

Looking back to the coffee bar, Dean sees they're still being watched and gets several excited waves; waving back helplessly, he retreats to his chair and drinks coffee determinedly.

"How're your girls, by the way? They okay?"

Settling in his chair, Tony's face lights up, the way it always does when he's with his kids, making Dean wonder about if he had a family before or this was his first opportunity to have one. 

"For once, Lily was excited about daycare," he answers, smiling fondly, and Dean thinks of the three year old's clinging arms and stubborn frown. "Dee was ready before I was this morning. With so many new friends to play with, I'm old news."

The daycare in the town square, now hosting God knows how many kids, must be the best thing since the death of Disney World. And that takes care of every subject he can think of while they're both staring at the (really goddamn big) wall. "So--two gates?"

"We're almost done with them. Should have the other two by tomorrow. I got a couple of guys hunting up more of the steel beams we had left after we finished the city center," Tony says, waving his thermos in the general direction of the warehouses (he thinks). "We can use those to reinforce the doors for now. Later, we'll hunt up a better design and see how we can adapt it to here. I have no idea what was standard for a…." he cocks his head, studying the opening in the wall intently. "You have any idea what Cas had in mind?"

"I don't think he knew," Dean answers honestly. "It was really--spontaneous."

"I got that feeling," Tony says wisely. "I'm making a list of what we'll need for the permanent gates, though God knows where we'll get industrial diamonds."

"Diamonds?" 

"To cut boltholes. Or maybe try a plasma torch, if we can find one. Nothing we got is making much of a dent in the surface, so for now we'll use a frame to hold the gates themselves and just epoxy that shit into place. I'm still not clear what we're dealing with here, though. It's gonna be a challenge."

"It's mostly brick and concrete. Well, was, anyway, not anymore." Wood and glass and whatever else was inside those buildings and houses (and cars), but more than that, he's not sure. Staring at it, he thinks about another time, looking at something that was nothing like what it actually was, except this time, no one dissolved reality afterward. "It's like you destabilize everything….molecularly," he tries. "And then--do things with it." 

Tony stares at him, coffee forgotten in his hand.

"Put it back together, I mean," Dean says quickly. "Obviously. Just--differently."

"Okay," Tony says, nodding, and Dean celebrates success with another drink. "So this is new, you're saying? Any idea what it is exactly? Or like?"

"Carbon and silicon," Dean says uncertainly. "Crystal sheets?"

Tony blinks slowly. "Say again?"

"Graphene start value?" In no world is Dean even vaguely conversant with the kind of science that requires diagrams and equations and formulas, but that's not a problem at the moment, since he's got several very complicated letter-number combination floating through his memory. The challenge here, he thinks, is working out what's relevant, which hey, Tony may know that. "Uh, you have a piece of paper?"

Tony passes him a pencil and points at the one side of the draft paper. "There's fine."

Dean writes it down, remembering Cas working his way up the periodic chart (oh, there we go, thank you context) and stops when he finds the right number and goes from there, reproducing in order Cas's backward engineering of his wall substance once he found the stable solid form (whatever that means). Molar mass, density, toughness, hardness, tensile strength, malleability, melting point, properties in individual and the whole's composite forms. Writing the final equation, he frowns, then sketches the bright crystalline structure as the graphene allotropes (he thinks) were chained together in atom-thin sheets and fused (stitched?) between ultra-thin bilayer bands of silicon carbide (that's a ceramic? Cool), and sits back, feeling a little dazed from the sheer amount of what the fuck he just wrote.

"So," he starts and just avoids being shoved aside so Tony can read the entire thing start to finish. And then again. 

"Huh," Tony says eventually, and Dean tries to decide if that's a good 'huh' or not as Tony sits back, staring at the paper with a distant look before his gaze fixes on the wall thoughtfully. "So this is really new."

"Cas said it worked with physics," Dean offers hopefully, employing euphemisms ruthlessly; 'said' is at least a word that exists. "Obeys, whatever. He checked."

"Good to know." Tony cocks his head. "Have we _discovered_ all the physics this obeys, though? Just curious."

Yeah, that. "We can definitely reproduce it," he says, because he doesn't know physics, but he does remember Cas checking for that like a dozen times. "So it'll--it's good wall stuff, right? Work okay?"

"Yeah," Tony agrees, taking a sip of his coffee and looking at the wall again with a speculative look. "Pretty much ideal. Cas up yet?"

"Still down," Dean answers without thinking; this rope thing is working for him, no effort at all to feel it. Drifty box, or maybe a very zen infinite ocean. "Uh, does anyone know about…." He's not sure where he's going with that. The storm thing, he can almost imagine playing that off as 'huh, isn't that strange and completely no idea because random magic who knows?' but that wall…those don't just happen in convenient circles--ellipses--around entire towns (and assorted fields both livestock and training). At least, not that he knows of: he should find out. "That Cas…."

"I was wondering about that," Tony agrees calmly, and Dean's never appreciated more how nothing seems to faze him. Though again, two kids under six: that does explain a lot. "Not many that I know of, and no one's talking, figured--you know." Dean nods enthusiastically. "You talk to Cas, we'll play it by ear, see what happens."

See what happens: he likes this plan. It's not a good one, but you take what you can get. "That works." 

"So we're still getting measurements," Tony says, returning to the (awesome) wall. "But it looks like about five miles north-south and eight and change east-west, so roughly twenty-two to thirty-five mile perimeter, but haven't had a chance to really measure everything."

"Cool." Dean nods complacently; it's an awesome goddamn wall, no question. And yeah, that's really goddamn big. "Twenty-two to thirty-five _miles_?"

"So math tells us until I can get more than a guess on the arc. Ellipses are like that." They both take a moment to watch one of city services leap to his feet, projecting frustration and pointing at something on the future gate and yelling--numbers? In the background, he sees Laura pause beside Alison, and Alison, the traitor, point in his direction and Laura start toward them. Technically--and he does get this--he's actually in charge here, and there's no reason to hate Alison right now.

Straightening, Dean pastes smile on his face as Laura jogs up to him, looking red-cheeked and filled with determination to succeed at any and all costs. "How's it going? Is Kamal hiding from me?"

"The interference made it impossible to understand what you were saying," she recites, making no effort whatsoever to make him believe it. "We are all very sorry--"

"Seriously?" He rolls his eyes. "Okay, anything happening other than resumed relay? And by the way, you're going off duty like now. All of you. For disobeying orders and food and sleep."

"Yes sir," she agrees, also not believably. "Nothing last night at any of the four checkpoints and nothing since we started relay again after the blizzard stopped. All points reported in and with the snow so fresh and the salting last night after….." She frowns thoughtfully, obviously torn on how to phrase whatever happened to all the cars and snow left on IH-Ichabod, and he waits for it, because Cas wasn't specific on how that happened (Did it vanish? Float away? Turn into wall-stuff? What?). "Cleared. Anyway, shouldn't be long to get it clear to D again, and relay's already started taking people from B and C to A. So far, everyone's reporting people are still coming in, and the old wards haven't acted up."

Dean braces himself. "So there are some survivors?"

"Yeah. Actually…" She hesitates. "Some of them this morning said--right before the blizzard hit, they said someone told them to get in the nearest car and bundle up and not to get out until they saw the sun. When they did--there'd be people waiting to bring them here." She shrugs uncertainly. "Was that Cas?"

No, but he can guess who, and what her range is now. He wonders if she even knew before Cas told her to give that 'stop' command. "I'll ask him when he wakes up. Who's on escort right now?"

"Alison told Joe that Chitaqua is off duty until we've all slept, eaten, and checked for all our fingers and toes," she answers with a grin. "Hans and Antonio for Ichabod, Jim and Benjamin for Mount Hope, Bridget and Dax for Andale, Donald and Muriel for Noak--"

"Lourdes' husband Donald?"

"He was first at Volunteer Services this morning, Claudia said," she says, frowning in thought. "Cody and Christian for Harlin, hold up….Lees and his wife Kayla for Bentley, Abel and Frances from--somewhere in the west, sorry, but they took the first group of volunteers. Sya and Pippin took the second, Anabelle and Douglas for the third and--yeah, that's all I met so far."

"Back up. Volunteers from _where_?"

"Everywhere," she explains. "Well, Kansas, anyway. They showed up at Volunteer Services this morning, asked to help, and were already helping clear the snow and get more buses ready to go when we got the first bus back."

"They just showed up?"

"I think Donald and some of the Alliance people went around asking for volunteers to help out so Ichabod's patrol could get some sleep," she says. "Alison and Teresa approved them. They're still organizing, so only ten groups are out now running escort. Joe's got a list from Volunteer Services."

"Right," Dean says blankly, mentally scheduling a long talk with Joe, stat. Tony looks pleased, settling back for another drink of coffee. "Good job. Get some rest."

"Yes, sir," she says with a grin, saluting (mockingly) before starting back toward Second.

"Trust me, Alison was as surprised as you are, but she came down to check them personally, especially considering what happened last night," Tony says reassuringly. "All good intentions and helping people and determination in the face of adversity or something, that kind of thing."

"Yeah." The casualty count was forty-five before he fell asleep, and he really needs to check in with Joe soon about that. He doubts with everything else they've gotten far with the investigation. Another group of refugees wander in, looking cold, exhausted, and dazed as they stare up at the wall before being herded away by the next group of volunteers for medical checks and food and sleep. "Alison was saying something about towers?"

"Hell yeah," Tony says, leaning forward intently. "I got some ideas about that."

* * *

Returning to HQ half an hour later (when Dennis showed up to herd Tony to bed no matter how much math and arcs and tower designing needs to be done), Dean gets an entire five seconds of dazed shock at the sheer number of people crossing the lobby and coming down the stairs who were definitely not here before. All wandering in the same direction at that "What--"

"Chitaqua and all the recruits are on stand-down," Joe tells him, coming out of nowhere, hand dropping on his shoulder and steering him away from stairs. "No, Alicia checked and you haven't eaten since lunch yesterday. _Then_ visitation hours start again."

"How would she know--"

"Don't ask those kinds of questions," Joe advises him, waving at Jeremy at the front desk and an unfamiliar girl in her late teens that Dean assumes is Joelle from Jeremy's really unnecessary level of alertness, like worlds will die if that log book isn't watched carefully. "Sixteen and above are helping out around town assisting the volunteers, and Joelle got assigned here. She really wants to know what the minimum age is for Chitaqua, by the way."

"Oh God." Tossing back her long braids, Joelle gives him a bright smile and waves, and helpless, Dean waves back, noting that the wall behind them now has a massive bulletin board with, among other things, the shift schedule for today, what looks like a rough layout of the three floors of their building with labels he can't quite read from here, a street-level map of Ichabod from Baltimore to Seventh, and what appears to be the same diagram of the wall that Alison had. 

"Lunch is available in our mess," Joe says, grabbing his arm before he can go get it and review the parts of a big wall. "Stop stalling--food, Dean. There's bacon. More supplies showed up after the blizzard stopped, so eat while we can, for who the hell knows when we will again? Well, dinner at least, that should be fine. And probably breakfast."

Dean starts to ask when they got a mess but…bacon. For _lunch_. But wait, _mess_. "We're not keeping this building." Because they're not, and yet, there's a weird sense of--something like the crazy militia form of nesting going on here. 

"I kind of like it," Joe says thoughtfully, and then he's pushed into yet another beige room that's now filled with tables, chairs, and….people. "Alison had a second mess opened on Fifth this morning in an old restaurant and plans another for Seventh, but with this many people, they're triple shifting. Alonzo said everything in the kitchen's working, and him and Britney did a supply run this morning and started cooking the minute the electricity came on."

That would explain all the people. "So our recruits all here?"

"We got the space," Joe says reasonably. "Their buildings are hosting double or triple--or quadruple--the usual numbers, and they're working with us anyway, so might as well bring them here."

As they make their way up the aisle, Dean's abruptly very aware of the attention he's getting from a lot of only vaguely familiar faces. "Huh."

"Food, then report," Joe says firmly, and Dean goes with it because there is, actually, bacon. He can _smell it_ right there on their buffet tables. Which they now have. In this building they _aren't keeping_. "You get the food, I'll grab us a table."

* * *

Dean learns the following: Chitaqua and Ichabod's patrols are on stand-down from noon until dawn by Alison's order and confirmed by the Alliance, along with anyone who's been on perimeter duty since this started. He wonders what it's like to give orders and have them be obeyed. Sounds pretty cool. 

The incidents are still under investigation, which considering the potential witness list is in the five hundred person range, isn't a surprise, though one of the names on it is unsettling: Rosario, a member of Haruhi's team.

"YMCA," Joe confirms over a fork of beans and rice. "She was helping getting people organized, froze up, same as Haruhi. Naresh sent her straight to isolation. Derek's assigned to help city services and Vicky here and yeah, both probably guess they're being watched, though…" 

"Anyone else local?"

"Not so far, but they're barely started," Joe answers soberly. "Alicia helped Naresh and Rohan get initial statements and a rough timeline. However, new information: one of those in that room at the YMCA was also around at one of the fights they were having at the entrance point yesterday."

"But--" Dean starts.

"Yeah, from the outside, they looked like regular crowd problems," Joe agrees, getting a forkful of potato-onion-pepper thing as Dean reaches for one of the tortillas stacked on a plate between them. "But Naresh said they said it was like that, same pattern. Everything was fine, one cranky or hostile person, then boom; that person turns on someone, one or two people join in, then it spreads."

"Like a compulsion to bully the weakest in the herd?" Even compulsion-crazy people couldn't have possibly looked on Cas and thought that. "Different people?"

"Not a big enough sampling, but an escalated mob mentality might also explain it," Joe offers. "Anyway, at the entrance point, patrol was breaking it up before it got too far, and like I said, from the outside, not anything to write home about." Joe takes a bite of rice. "You know, Alicia had a point about us not listening to them."

Dean raises his eyebrows as he chews to indicate 'huh?'

"The new arrivals. Here's a thought to make your noon: that attack on Cas in the mess, sucked yeah, but would we have even known this was happening otherwise?"

Dean swallows quickly. "You mean, would we have cared if it wasn't one of ours?" That's probably not untrue, exactly.

"More the danger of taking Occam's razor as gospel," Joe answers, raising his eyebrows in acknowledgement of that inconvenient truth as well. "Even with Cas's report, none of us but Alicia really thought it was anything but tired, crazy people being more than usually crazy. Naresh independently confirmed Alicia's suspicions before they started sharing notes, and now you know why she likes him."

Dean finishes a slice of bacon. "So you're going somewhere with this."

"Something I was thinking about when I was helping out at the Y," he says, finishing off the rice and reaching for another tortilla, folding it in half and demonstrating no one at Chitaqua has table manners by biting it in half and _still talking_. "What's the end game here?"

"With the crazy people being compulsively crazy?" Dean shrugs, picking up a tortilla, adding a few forkfuls of rice and beans, rolling it up neatly, and biting off _a quarter_ of the whole; might as well be a good example and hope others follow (that doesn't work with orders, but hey, anything could happen. A wall did, after all; who saw that coming?). "Giant mob in Ichabod killing each other in an end game bloodbath…yeah, no, doesn't work. Unless Alicia's wrong about how and why this happened."

Joe takes a very significant bite of potato to broadcast how little he believes that. Which yeah, Dean doesn't either, so.

"Or a second plan, unrelated to all existing plans…." It's not that it's not possible, but honest to God, Dean can't handle this plan-within-a-plan bullshit. He's got something about (a contract?) and Crowley, Cas (auction?), and Crowley definitely knowing about him; how these things fit together he's not sure, but nothing he's come up with yet is even in the realm of 'not a disaster'. "Listen to them."

Joe swallows the rest of the tortilla like a machine who likes flatbreads too much. "Huh?"

"Alicia said 'accept all these thing as true'," Dean says. "Giant spiders, cockroach armies, Democratic party as interpreted by the NRA, military…."

"Some of these are not like the others in tinfoily and phobic ways?"

"Can you get me a full list--or a bigger sampling?" Dean asks at Joe's horrified expression. "From early arrival to latest, figure out a sampling that looks legit and we'll use that. Find out what people thought they were running from."

Joe cocks his head. "Tell me what I'm looking for?"

"I'm not sure," he admits. "But if I'm right about what I'm not sure about, bias is gonna fuck it up. By the way--Haruhi's interview, gonna need to check that, too. And everything she and her team have done together or apart since New Year's Eve."

"You're enjoying being mysterious," Joe says accusingly, scraping up the last of the potato with intent.

"Yeah," he admits, picking up the last piece of bacon. "Kind of liking it."

* * *

Under the aegis of 'sampling of crazy people', Joe abandons him with a half-bowl full of potato thing, alone and unprotected, and after a short, fraught period, Dean's surrounded by--fuck his life--recruits. Who, as it turns out, are over the 'leader of Chitaqua shock and awe' thing and have moved--he assumes--into the 'talk him to death for coup purposes' phase of their professional relationship.

Between frantic bites, he's listens to the news: there'd been some sightings of unusual shit in the distance, but nothing closer than thirty miles from Ichabod so far; some of the new people coming in gave some unsettling narratives of things not quite seen and the feeling of being watched, but nothing definite except that weird thirty-mile line.

Looking around in hopes of someone desperately needing him for something--he'll take anything--he catches Lena and Martin, one of their recruits, hovering at the mess door, trying to catch his eye while Sean and the rest of his team wait nearby, all looking really tense.

"Duty calls," he says, swallowing the last bite and smiling like a leader at really enthusiastic subordinates before giving them a tiny head jerk and retreating to put his dishes on the table apparently designated for that but keeping his coffee cup. He has a feeling he's going to need it.

Going out a door nearby, he finds himself in a new hall he's never seen before and Jesus Christ, what is _wrong_ with this goddamn building? A few feet down the hallway, the noise muffled, Dean turns to see them coming toward him and over their shoulder recognizes the edge of a lobby door. Sean and the other two hang back as Lena and Martin approach, and taking in Martin, the ashen quality beneath the dark brown skin, jeans and coat both liberally sprinkled with fresh blood, Dean braces himself.

"What happened?"

"We just brought in a group," Lena says, resting a reassuring hand on Martin's shoulder. "Martin saw them when we were searching cars down D about three miles down and helped get them in. Emergency, needed medical attention ASAP, so we brought one of them back in the jeep ourselves. They were attacked yesterday evening about ten miles from Checkpoint D." Just outside the thirty mile if he remembers the map right. "Teresa got the wards up on the wall just as we brought them through."

Dean stills. "And they went off." 

"Yeah, but not what you're thinking," Lena confirms grimly. "Emergency was a woman with her leg pretty torn up, was defending her group. It was her leg and her knife that set off the wards. Teresa took the knife and did--something--and she said Hellhound."

"Son of a bitch." Dean takes a deep breath, trying to think. If that woman had been the target, she wouldn't have survived, but that she survived at all…. "What else?"

Lena hesitates, eyes flickering to Martin, and okay, that's not good.

"Get some rest," Dean tells him. "We're on stand down until dawn. Check in with front desk and I will check you're actually resting. Good job."

Martin's thin cheeks flush with hot color. "Thanks. Going now, sir."

Lena jerks her head at Sean as Martin goes back down the hall but waits until he's out of sight before looking at Sean. "You're up."

Sean takes a deep breath. "The woman was Carol."

Dean's blank expression is apparently read as 'totally knows who that is but more information about something'.

"Didn't recognize her at first," Sean continues, and the rest of his team nods agreement. "But if anyone could kill a Hellhound, it'd be her. One of the people with her said salt-load straight in the eye after wounding it enough to see where it was."

"Yeah, she couldn't see it." Okay, one, it wasn't after her, and two, Carol can now be presumed as probably former Chitaqua. Looks like some of their former members stayed in Kansas. "You talk to her?"

"She wouldn't even look at me," Lena answers flatly, giving him a quick glance before her gaze drops to her boots. "Any of us."

"She's not the only one here," Sean says, and Dean goes on full alert at the change in Sean's voice. "Micah and his crew are on the next bus coming in. Saw them myself."

Where has he heard that name-- "Alicia's ex."

"That'd be him," Tara says, and searching their faces, Dean sees the same carefully neutral expressions combined with something dangerous. Like when you're not sure what to say or--on a guess here--what your leader knows or what he wants to hear but want to say it anyway.

He should have asked Cas more about those that left. Even if he didn't want to tell who was at his cabin that night, Dean's pretty sure by now he could guess by Cas's reaction to their names. "Just say it."

"I don't know," Sean starts, looking at Lena a little desperately. "I barely knew the guy, he left about a month after me and Lena got out of training with a couple of his buddies. None of them were fans of Cas, that much I remember." He gives Dean an apologetic look. "That doesn't mean much, though. Not like Cas was trying to win popularity contests, and Micah--not a lot of people liked him, to be honest. Alicia sure wasn't upset when he was gone. Knowing her now, I'm kind of surprised she didn't help him on his way with a bullet to the ass."

Dean nods, trying to decide what to do with this. "Alicia's with Cas, I'll talk to her. Anyone else from Chitaqua show up?"

"Just them so far," Tara says. "So you want us to--"

"Spread the word? Yeah. And talk to Karl at the infirmary before you go to bed, ask him to keep us updated on Carol. How bad is her leg?"

"They did a good job dressing it," Lena says. "But Karl asked to use our jeep to get her back and was on the walky-talky with Dolores while Kim drove, so no idea. They'll probably call for Vera if…"

"Yeah." He sighs. "Infirmary, then bed, and you're all off-duty until dawn. Dismissed."

* * *

Dean checks in at front desk (in the lobby of the building they're not keeping, come on) where he verifies the log (read: looks at it and nods wisely), checks the duty schedule for reception (Jeremy until dusk, then Natalie), and duty schedule for the mess (they have one of those now, Jesus Christ), then listens straight-faced to Jeremy give the most thorough report of sitting at a desk he's ever heard (Joelle, he notes, keeps a straight face all through, but her mouth twitches once or twice, and Dean gives her points for self-control).

"Cas looks better," Jeremy says suddenly after Dean's nodded his approval. "Alicia let me in while you were checking out the wall. You know how much longer until he's up?"

"Last dose was about an hour ago," he says casually, leaning a hip against the desk; Jeremy was at Volunteer Services when they brought Cas in, a fact that in retrospect he's grateful for. There's only so much reality any kid should have to face, and he doesn't think Jeremy's gonna lose any important life lessons not knowing the details. "Vera told you what happened?"

"Exhausted after making the wall and the weather thing," Jeremy answers promptly, transparently unworried. "Cas's always had problems sleeping."

Dean glances sharply at Joelle, who catches his gaze and bites her lip. "I guessed," she says, frowning at Jeremy when he starts to speak before looking at Dean again. "Maman was at the meeting where Cas told the parents about the symbol. We talked before I came this morning when I told her my assignment: I'm supposed to say thank you when I see Cas and remember the rule about talking about things that aren't other people's business."

Dean cocks his head; Maimouna isn't super-strict, but from what Vera told him, she has no illusions about seventeen year olds. "What's the rule about being on duty here?"

"That." She rolls her eyes and slumps in her chair while she and Jeremy exchange (hilariously) aggrieved looks. "Being allowed to assist Chitaqua and the other member of patrol is a privilege, not a right, and I'll be helping with sanitation forever if I don't take my responsibilities seriously. Also, she and Vera talk to each other in the infirmary a lot, so if I'm not in the lobby or the common rooms in view of an adult, she'll find out and ask me why."

Jeremy flushes interestingly, staring at the desk. "Duty at the reception desk with Joelle is a privilege, not a right. Sanitation with Cyn," he mumbles, a universe of horror in his voice. "And possibly your disappointed speech, which she says even Cas avoids if he can."

"What are you doing after you go off duty?" he asks Jeremy like he has no idea what he could possibly want to do with his free time.

"Mom said to ask you, Cas, Vera, or Joe if Jeremy could spend the evening with us," Joelle says, looking hopeful. "He'll be back at nine."

"He can," Dean says magnanimously, because he's cool like that. "Log out with Natalie and check in with one of us when you get back. Got it?" He gets twin nods. "I'm going to be upstairs with Cas. Any problems and Joe isn't around, come get me, okay? Otherwise, check in once an hour until you go off-duty."

"Got it," Jeremy says, just barely avoiding a salute, and Dean nods as seriously as he can as he pushes off the desk.

"Good job," he says as he starts toward the stairs, then remembers something. "Oh, and tell Alonzo to make some broth or something and have that ready around dusk."

* * *

Alicia's expression doesn't change at all, blue eyes unreadable. "When?"

"Sean saw him on the bus coming in," he answers, noticing the library book's been replaced by the folder again, and it's gotten much thicker--reports, he assumes, and wonders who's keeping her updated. "Anything I need to know?"

"Micah?" She frowns, eyes fixing on the bed. "He was a dick, one. Two, he really didn't like Cas. Three, giant dick but also a coward. Four, did I mention--"

"He's a dick, yeah." 

"If you feel some need to say, take him on a walk on the wall and push, that's okay," Alicia assures him. "You wouldn't be the first."

Dean sighs: that kind of a break-up. "His buddies? Didn't get their names--" Should he know that? Probably not: back then, he was kind of a dick, too.

"Barney and Stephen, probably, and I'll be surprised if you remembered their names, they're that forgettable," Alicia states. "Also, both dicks, but more the sycophantic kneeling at the feet of the master, Micah, who I'm not sure I made clear, is--"

"A dick," Dean agrees. Really bad breakup, then. "Carol's here, too."

Alicia looks at him. "Our Carol?"

"So they tell me." He wonders if he can figure out how to get a description without in any way implying he hasn't met her, then notes Alicia's thoughtful expression. "What?"

"She and Andy were involved before she left." Alicia's frown deepens. "Maybe--three months after Andy got out of training, they had a fight and she up and left. Hence the Kat-Andy-unresolved-forever-followed-by-too-much-sex-in-my-cabin: he was really into Carol and getting over it, not something he was quick to do. Did they come together?"

"Who? Micah and Carol?" Good question. "Lena said Martin found Carol's group, and Sean said he saw Micah and his friends on the bus. Why?"

"They would have said if they'd seen them together," Alicia answers, sitting back with a distant look. "And yet, in all the world, in all of time, in all this migration from Hell, Carol shows up at the same time as Micah and the subdicks two. The wall's twenty-four feet, people stumble, we could push them all off--"

"I’m getting the feeling," Dean interrupts, "that you don't like them."

"Just kidding about Carol," Alicia assures him. "Mostly."

"What does that mean?"

"Judgy," Alicia says, tipping her head sideways to regard the air above Cas's head thoughtfully. "And not in awesome way that gets you a cool superhero name, but the kind where you want to invent new mortal sins just to offend her more. I had a list."

Dean stares at Alicia. "You're kidding."

"She was fun at parties," Alicia offers. "Official drinking game: drink every time she disapproves of something and die in like an hour. You had to pace yourself even with beer or you'd get the worst hangovers and never remember where you left your underwear. Or if you do, remember how they got there." She frowns. "Not saying Justin didn't look hot in them, baby blue is totally his color, but that lace had to be uncomfortable, especially after twenty-four hours."

"Why," Dean asks before he can stop himself, "was he wearing your underwear for a whole day?"

"Prodigiously clever drunken use of tape," she says proudly, shaking her head. "Even I was impressed with myself when I saw that. No way he could have gotten it off himself without snipping some very key--"

"Okay, stop there," he says, and sees Alicia's cheerful grin, which conveys to him that she could also tell him which color of her underwear looks good on him. Because she's seen him in them. Possibly with _tape_. "What were we talking about that wasn't that?"

"Carol and parties," Alicia answers tranquilly, settling back while Dean ruthlessly suppresses any speculation about what she and Cas used to talk about over coffee other than camp gossip. "Disapproval. Drinking game. Fun."

"So why did she even go to them?"

"To disapprove of everyone," Alicia explains. "At length. Pace yourself, that was my motto: only when she quoted Old Testament and use the word 'thy'. Otherwise: see poor Justin--"

"Again," he interrupts frantically, "not that. Anything else I should know about her and Micah and the other two?"

"They're cowards," she says dismissively. "Doesn't mean I'd show them my back, ever."

So he'll be giving Cas some names soon. "Got it." He jerks his head toward the door. "Bed until dusk." He cuts off her protest with, "I talked to Matt." It's a lie, but her expression darkens.

"I slept at least three hours."

"And now you're gonna get another five," he says, pointing. "Dusk, Alicia. Don't make me walk you to your room and tuck you in."

"Fine." Alicia tips her head toward the bed. "His last dose was about two hours ago. I already removed the catheter," oh thank God, some things he's pretty sure even Cas's unfamiliarity with boundaries may have a problem with, not to mention God, no, "and checked with Vera, so a couple of things. Cas snaps out of regular sedatives pretty fast, but reactions to anesthesia vary. Nausea, hostility, homicidal tendencies toward needles and mortality--though latter two are Cas anyway, so could we really ever be sure?"

"Because Cas," he agrees, grinning at her. "Dusk."

"Ugh." Picking up the folder, she gives him a dirty look and wanders out, and Dean takes her chair and scoots it close to the bed before looking at the forgotten library book warily (genital shrinking?). Morbid curiosity wins: picking up _Hoaxes, Myths, and Manias: Why We Need Critical Thinking_ (if that title could be more pompous, he'd really like to know how), he flips it to chapter one and resigns himself to more variety in his nightmares.

* * *

Dean's halfway through _Chapter 7: Latah: Strange Mental Disorder or Exotic Custom?_ when his attention is jerked toward the bed, where he watches Cas slowly blinking his eyes open, glaring the ceiling like he's done with this bullshit (whatever that bullshit might be).

Swallowing hard, he puts down the book and gets up, easing down on the mattress and picking up one fragile wrist, wondering uncertainly if Cas is thinner than he remembers, and pressing his thumb to the pulse like Vera taught him. Cas blinks slowly, focusing on him for a long moment with a frown.

"How you doing?" Dean asks softly. Cas's lips part, as if to say something, before he makes a face, and yeah, that. "Hold up, got you some water." Helping Cas sit up and piling the pillows up behind him, he holds the glass carefully, ignoring Cas's efforts to take it despite the fact his hand-eye coordination at the moment is kind of shot. "So--"

"Crowley knows about you," Cas rasps out breathlessly, and Dean's never felt more conflicted in his entire life, because Jesus Christ, what is it about his _voice_? "You were one of the terms in a double-blind contract written by Crowley, signatures other than Crowley unknown, holder unknown; bringing you here when Dean died was one of the terms so the Apocalypse would continue, complete in full with the death or caging of Lucifer while you're still alive and here. The barrier was to protect you until you--until you were acclimatized and I'd taught you your duties here. They're raising it again because apparently I haven't done a very good job." Cas gets a strange look on his face. "Who on earth would think I would?"

"Dude, you did great," Dean says soothingly, letting all that slot into place: him, contract (double blind, okay), Crowley (gonna die), demons (of course), barrier. Leaving out the part where everything went to hell (because of Crowley), this is one of the better results of dealing with demons: questions answered (whether they knew about those questions or not), everyone survived, and no one sold their soul. Part that went to hell--totally Crowley's fault. "You were fine."

"I think I--" Cas stops for a breath, like the most important thing here is getting out all needed information, and sure, right now Dean gives no shits and it can wait, compromise is important in relationships and so are feelings. Cas's feelings say he needs to talk, fine. "He didn't know anything about what's happening now. The migration of Kansas. That's something else--related, but not part of the contract or possibly any of his demons. Though that part I don't believe."

"Huh." This is so not the time, but just like that, Dean's aware of that not-faded-much bruise pulling sharply against the muscle of his thigh, the mess of Cas's hair, and he's a terrible human being. It's not like he needs more reasons to want Crowley dead, but it occurs to him the fucker also messed up his newfound sex life and for a second, the nearest crossroad beckons, for this is indeed bullshit.

Cas, oblivious to Dean's deeply fucked up priorities (though sex makes you healthy and less moody, and just to point out, he leads a militia: health both physical and emotional are important), says, "Did I hurt anyone?"

Pulling back the blankets, Dean frowns at him in incomprehension, which is apparently exactly the wrong thing to do. A hand closes over his wrist, and look at that, Cas got his hand-eye coordination back. Not the time, he reminds himself frantically: this is _not the time_. "How many?"

Dean looks into the frightened blue eyes. "You don't remember?"

"Not yet," Cas whispers, looking away. "I remember wanting to, and I'd rather…don't lie to me. It won't help, and when I do remember…."

"I'll never lie to you," Dean says, turning Cas's head so he can look into his eyes. "Never. Unless, you know--necessary to save your life or something, then I'll do it and love it. You didn't hurt anyone." 

"I destroyed half of Ichabod."

"More than that," he says without thinking and quickly adds, "Just the useless parts. No one'll miss 'em. Dangerous buildings, people, shitty combination, it's fine."

Cas searches his face like he's reading a new language, one that makes no sense. "Then what did I do?"

Dean only thinks about it for a second. "Can you walk yet?"

"What?" Cas suddenly looks around the mostly-empty room, focusing on the table of medical whatever with an offended look (yeah, saw that coming) before looking at Dean again. "Where are we?"

"Our totally not permanent headquarters in Ichabod," Dean tells him, getting up to find Cas's boots and a pair of clean socks. "Come here."

Looking baffled, Cas lets him ease him to the edge of the bed and remove the IV and tape gauze over the tiny drop of blood forming. Kneeling, Dean pulls one narrow, cold foot into his lap, sliding on the sock. Something makes him look up, and he quickly looks back down after a glimpse of Cas's expression, biting back a (totally not the time) smile; so he's not the only one. Gotta remember that.

"What," Cas pauses to clear his throat, and Dean's not smug at all. "What are you doing?"

"Footwear," Dean tells him cheerfully, finishing with the other sock and making quick work of getting his boots laced up with a mental note to come back to this real soon now. Getting up, he gets Cas's coat, then on reconsideration also pulls the top quilt free; those scrubs are thin, but this won't take long. "Stand up."

Cas's balance is off, but Dean was ready for that, steadying him with an arm around his waist and fighting back a (again, not the time but who cares) grin. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see," Dean says, sliding Cas's arm over his shoulders (just in case). "You'll like it. Promise."

* * *

Jeremy and Joelle are still in the lobby, though Natalie's on duty at the desk, which he assumes means they're waiting for Maimouna to escort them to their building.

Then Jeremy looks away from Joelle and stands up, almost knocking over his chair, and smiles in relief.

"Cas?" Then, remembering he's an almost-adult (and Joelle grinning beside him), adds more casually, "You're feeling better?"

"Very much, yes," Cas says, having just braved the epic swirl of those goddamn stairs and focusing on him thoughtfully. "Joelle, I presume?"

"Joelle," she confirms, getting to her feet and casually pushing back the wrist-length braids in one of those automatic things girls pretend doesn't take practice to make look that effortless. "We're waiting for Maman finish up at the infirmary."

"Jeremy's having dinner with them and will be home at nine," Dean explains.

"Excellent," Cas says, eyeing Jeremy, who straightens. "Check in when you return, and remember to thank Maimouna for the invitation."

"So where you going?" Joelle asks, looking between them and then on Cas. "Oh, you just got up, right? Maman said to say thank you."

Cas frowns. "For what?"

"Give us a minute," Dean tells her, grabbing Cas's wrist and tugging him to the door. "Be right back."

"But the storm…." Cas's frown deepens, but he doesn't fight too hard, and sliding his hand down, Dean laces their fingers together and Cas stops fighting all together; yeah, that's what he thought. 

Pushing the door open, Dean leads him outside, snow crunching cheerfully beneath their boots; it's snowing again, a barely-there powder drifting in the faint breeze, and Cas looks around with a bewildered expression. Copying Joe, Dean faces Cas and tips his head up just at a bright streak of red-limned violet chases itself across the sky beneath the threatening roll of clouds, and Cas goes still.

Looking back at him, Dean stills at his expression, throat closing at the sheer wonder, like--holy shit, he had _no idea_.

"How…." Cas licks his lips, and Dean glances up in time to see a flicker of electric blue swirl into green, then a burst of gold sparkles across the whole as the snow strengthens for a minute before reluctantly returning to a gentle drift. "It worked."

"Pretty good parlor trick," Dean says breathlessly, and forgets to breathe altogether when Cas looks at him, blue eyes filled with wonder. "River's too strong, can't stop it with a dam, so…."

"Slow it down." Cas looks back up, licking his lips before making an effort to compose himself. "Some will still get through, of course, it's not stopping it--"

"Just filtering it," Dean agrees, unable to help the grin spreading across his face. "And we get a nice, snowy day. Days." Cas nods helplessly, and from the corner of his eye, he sees Jeremy and Joelle at the door, both grinning at them. "Okay, ready for part two?"

"For what?" Taking Cas by the shoulders, Dean faces him to the west and steps aside, watching gleefully as Cas's face goes blank, blanket falling to the ground at their feet.

"What," Cas asks in shock, "is that?"

"About four-fifths of Ichabod, a couple of parking lots of cars, and fuck if I know, but a lot of it," Dean tells him smugly. "We call it a wall."

Cas drags his incredulous gaze to Dean.

"Didn't get a name for it," he continues, trying to keep his voice steady. "Me, I like casteele, what do you think? No steel in it, yeah--at least, didn't see iron in the formula, that's Fe, right?--but--"

"I made that?" Cas whispers.

"You made that." Reaching for the collar of his jacket, Dean tugs him around to meet the shocked blue eyes. "'He performs wonders that cannot be fathomed'," he says, "'miracles that cannot be counted.' Though here, we'll go with 'at least three I know about'."

Cas blinks at him. "There's a third part?"

"That'd be you." Cupping Cas's cold face, he kisses him, trying to put everything into that, because otherwise he may have to resort to words or something and he's not sure there are any for this. "Saving the world one small, overrun, fortified, stormless Kansas town at a time," he murmurs against Cas's lips, trying to catch his breath. "Not too bad."

"I didn't save the world," Cas whispers, hands clenching in Dean's flannel like he's not planning on letting go, and Dean really likes this plan. "I just--"

"You can't do everything," Dean answers, and feels Cas's snort of laughter against his cheek. "Gotta leave something for the rest of us."

"Infinite," Cas says suddenly, and a cold hand slides around the back of his neck, glaring at him for a moment, which would be much more effective if there weren't tiny snowflakes caught in his lashes. And not smiling: that would also help. "The number of ways you're frustrating. I wondered about that."

Laughing, Dean wraps an arm around Cas's waist and jerks him closer, leaning in for another kiss. "Look who's talking."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Notes (belated): So you're probably wondering about graphene.
> 
> I ran across graphene during my research for **War Games** (STR) while trying to work out the theoretical possibility of collapsed metals for reasons having to do with creating ion storms as part of an Orion-Romulan plot against the Federation leading to intergalactic war (I ended up going with 'handwave'). Yes, graphene isn't a collapsed metal, but at least science didn't try to convince me it didn't and couldn't exist, and I'm kinda still cranky about that, _science_. However, I ended up following along with research on graphene because I can't tell you, it's like the way I follow rare cat breeding even though I don't breed cats, don't want to, and honestly can't say before the moment I discovered this exciting field I actually cared. Yet stabilizing the Savannah breed for the long term is a thing I follow. Go figure.
> 
> Anyway, my (admittedly self-imposed) restrictions on my substance of choice included the following: must exist, must be reproducible with current technology, must be useful for walls, and all of those things must be true by cut-off date of January 2012 _or_ using research up to current date, could be reproducible using technology current for January 2012, they just didn't (maybe) know it yet. (Also, cannot be magic.) My secondary restriction that was more a hope than anything was I could get a ceramic. I shouldn't have doubted; with science, like with God, all things are possible (except collapsed metals)(yet).
> 
> Graphene is an allotrope of carbon. It's also actually magic; if you want some of your own, [put a piece of tape on the lead of a number two pencil and pull](http://www.physicscentral.com/explore/poster-nobelprize.cfm). On that tape--invisible to the naked eye--is a two-dimensional single-atom layer of the substance we call graphene. Graphene is strong--290 times stronger than steel by weight--but it also possesses very high tensile strength; it doesn't break under pressure, conducts electricity like magic, and gives modern physics a headache every time we discover a new property (awesome). A solid gram of graphene would literally be unbreakable forever; however, science says (now) that's impossible because graphene is literally a two-dimensional single atom layer from graphite; that's where it gets its uniqueness (though a 3d form has been vaguely discovered). Layer it up and it's just graphite again--still cool, but not that cool. I went through various ways to prove that wrong, then I remembered I'm not a theoretical physicist and no, I wasn't going to burst open the field of physics all on my own just because I really, really like graphene and wanted to write a story about a wall made of it. 
> 
> Silicon carbide (SiC) is a compound; it doesn't melt, it's inert, it's hard as hell, and is more heat resistant than diamond. It's used in armored vehicles by the UK and in brakes. However, it is (comparatively) easy to fracture (science word: toughness), and that's where graphene comes in and it's tensile strength.
> 
> Layering up graphene into a Theoretically Awesome Graphene Wall was impossible, but I had a second option: bilayer graphene sheets chemically bonded to silicon carbide like a really awesome skin; third option, a single bilayer of graphene stitched between bilayers of silicon carbide over and over like a layer cake with lots of layers (billions) (before you say "holy shit" no, my idea was the silicon carbide, not the stitching); fourth option: get some graphene powder and sprinkle it on the silicon carbide like baking powder in a cake. [That actually works with 3D printing.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Graphene#Applications) Because graphene.
> 
> The more you know.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read these notes first, or at least number 2.
> 
> 1.) Despite my manager assuring me months ago these Sunday validations would be (at most) monthly, since August I've had three Sundays where I didn't have to do one, and one of them I was on vacation with limited internet access (he asked, and in retrospect, that wasn't just checking on the quality of my vacation choices). So moving to a Monday-Wednesday posting schedule for the foreseeable future because accepting reality is something I should do more often and maybe--just maybe--not three months after the fact.
> 
> 2.) Warnings are provided in end notes. If you are at all squeamish, read them first. There are like, fifteen, I had TKodami (bless her and do I owe her (yes)), check me on this. Also, thanks to TKodami for reading the most relevant part and still speaking to me even though in retrospect, I may have been insufficient in explaining what she'd be reading other than--let me check the email--I quote: "Okay, to warn you; this is...weird." Also to Scynneh for reading as well and also? Still speaking to me. I do not deserve my friends, Christ.

_\--Day 153, continued--_

Dean insists on carrying his clothes for him to the second floor bathroom with an attached shower, dogging Castiel's heels like he's made of spun glass; it's almost as gratifying as it is maddening. Almost. "You don't have to--"

"It's fine," Dean says, flipping on the light to look around the elegantly appointed room--the putative soul-selling lawyer did have good taste, albeit slightly ostentatious for the Midwest--and leaving his toothbrush (and toothpaste) by the granite sink before opening the door to the room housing the shower with a flourish. "Don't worry about it."

Resigned, Castiel follows him in, noting the remains of a very nice sofa against the wall and the size of the walk-in shower. Obviously, the owner had his priorities in order and while some might find the practice of law incompatible with what appears to be a considerable effort toward constant debauchery, he's not one of them. (Nothing should be incompatible with debauchery; humanity's innovations on this are to be admired and encouraged.) However, when one is not allowed to engage in debauchery (for one is being watched by one's significant other as if one might collapse unexpectedly, not an entirely invalid worry, he must admit), it's salt in the wound.

Dean sets the clean clothes on the shredded leather along with two towels, origin unknown and uncared-about, before looking at Castiel expectantly.

He wonders uneasily if this is something he's supposed to already know about relationships; how does one ask for time to use the shower for one of its lesser but very important functions? "Dean--"

"You were under for eighteen hours," Dean says. "Just, you know, watching out for you. Might fall and hit your head or something." Castiel blinks slowly. "It happens!"

Taking off his coat, Castiel tosses it on the couch, holding Dean's eyes before reaching for the scrub top and pulling it over his head, and receives a very satisfactory response. Excellent. "I'll need to leave the shower door open then," he says, reaching lazily for the scrub bottoms, watching Dean's attention refocus immediately at a much lower point. "Remove your coat and first two layers, please."

Dean drops his coat directly on the floor, shrugging free of the flannel and dragging the grey thermal over his head without question as Castiel helpfully slides the shower open.

"And sit where I can see you," he adds, tugging down the bottoms until their own weight drags them to the floor before stepping out of them and going inside to turn on the water--buttons? Interesting--before stepping back and waiting for the temperature to increase. Turning around, he sees Dean standing very still in a circle of discarded clothing. "I want to jerk off, and since you insist on being here, I might as well take advantage of the visual incentive you offer."

Dean sucks in a breath. "Uh."

Seeing the beginnings of steam, Castiel steps back in, ducking beneath the warming spray: excellent water pressure. Shaking his head roughly, he feels the cobwebs shake themselves free as well, the hazy events of yesterday slotting into uncertain position. There's no benefit in pushing them aside; he needs to know--

He stills at the feel of a cool hand between his shoulder blades, palm skimming up the back of his neck and pushing his hair away for a pair of warm lips pressed just below the hairline. Closing his eyes, he feels a hand resting on his hip, tentative at first before the long fingers tighten, and six plus feet of somewhat-clothed Dean Winchester is stretched against the length of his back, lips parting against the hard beat of his pulse.

"You could have said something," Dean breathes, soft laughter puffing against his skin. "Unless you don't want company, of course."

"I could have." He blames the confusing events of the evening, catching his breath when Dean's tongue follows a trickle of water down his upper arm. "Consider it an open invitation."

"Up the hill," Dean says, mouth skimming from his shoulder to the shell of Castiel's ear with the edge of his teeth, "and back down again. Over. And. Over."

Castiel swallows, waiting until he's sure his voice is steady. "Does Sisyphus grow weary?"

"Sisyphus isn't even getting started," Dean answers, catching the lobe between his teeth, just enough pressure to give warning, callused fingertips skimming over his stomach, and he can feel the hard press of Dean's cock through the damp jeans, pressing insistently against his ass. A gentle tug and Castiel tips his head back against Dean's shoulder, and Dean's tongue traces a line down the side of his neck. "Guy wasn't too bright, though, gotta say. Been thinking about that."

It's a concerted effort to gather his thoughts, Dean's fingers tracing indecipherable patterns over his stomach, breath warm against his throat. "Sisyphus was the cleverest man ever born."

"Clever, maybe," Dean allows, opening his mouth over the curve of Castiel's shoulder and bearing down, just enough to feel the pressure. "But not all that smart."

"What--" Dean's arm wraps around his waist, turning him around before pushing him back against cool, frosted glass. Castiel looks at him helplessly; he's beautiful, without flaw, and never more so than now, wet lashes surrounding green incandescent with desire. He's seen Dean look at so many like that, but never him, and he never wanted it, not until now. "Why would you think--"

"Nice day, pretty hill, and an awesome buddy to hang out with," Dean says reasonably, lips brushing temptingly against his with each word. "And what does he do? Gotta run, tell me when the fucker comes back and we'll hang until he goes away? Dick move."

He starts to laugh, unable to help himself, and he can feel the puff of Dean's laughter before Dean kisses him, slow and deep, and he could be convinced of anything Dean believes if he keeps doing that. Threading his fingers through Dean's hair, he catches Dean's tongue between his teeth, raking the length before sucking on the tip, and Dean groans into his mouth, a vibration that shivers down his throat before pooling in his belly. 

"You," he says breathlessly, draping an arm over Dean's wet t-shirt covered shoulder, "are insane." 

"Back atcha," Dean says, grinning at him, and Castiel reaches for a handful of wet cotton, tugging it up impatiently, wanting to touch bare skin.

"You could have at least finished undressing," he murmurs, pushing Dean back enough to tug the clinging fabric over his head, disarranging already wet hair, before reaching for the waist of his jeans and thumbing open the first button before setting his thumb against the top and finishing the rest in a single quick slide.

"Jesus," Dean breathes. "You're good at that."

"I've had a great deal of practice," he answers without thinking, then reconsiders, remembering the unexpected Theodore issue, but Dean's grin only widens. Pulling them open, he cups Dean's cock through damp boxers, the heat unmistakable as Dean pushes into his hand with a groan.

"Practice is awesome," Dean agrees huskily, tugging Castiel into another kiss, rough and over far too quickly as Castiel drags the jeans and boxers down enough to touch him. "Speaking of, I need some more of that. Hold up."

Before Castiel can make sense of that, Dean reaches for his hips and slides down, hands closing over his ass and lifting him up with a huff of breath, and startled, Castiel reaches up, grabbing for the metal edge of the stall, and wrapping his legs around Dean's bare waist, and lets out a shuddering breath at the feel of Dean's wet cock pressed firmly against his own. Castiel pulls himself up slightly, checking for any signs of shoddy workmanship in shower construction before sliding back down the glass, breath catching in his throat at the slick slide of Dean's cock against his own. Truly, the work ethic of the designer is to be lauded.

Dean, however…. "Is--something wrong?" he asks, locking his ankles as he pulls himself back against the shower for another endless slide. "If you--"

"Making sure this is actually happening," Dean answers breathlessly, reaching to pull him into a kiss on the next downstroke. "Keep yourself up there, right?"

He nods dreamily, and Dean squeezes his ass before reaching between them and wrapping a hand around their cocks, _perfect_ , and then leans forward to lick Castiel's nipple, catching it between his teeth. The clouds of steam billow over them, turning the shower into a barely-there dream; Dean sucking a kiss against his collar, his shoulder, returning to suck the other nipple, shifting his grip on their cocks to squeeze on the downstroke and pushing up on his toes to meet him. Given a choice, he'd stay here forever, the build coiling endlessly in his spine, tight and hot, but Dean is ruthless, catching his mouth in quick, biting kisses, thumb stroking over the head and down the vein, moaning against his lips, his throat, sucking open-mouthed kisses against his chest and the _sounds_ ….

With a gasp, Castiel stills, locking his fingers helplessly around the metal frame as Dean's head drops against his shoulder, and the coil snaps, rushing through him. Dean gasps, squeezing impossibly tight, before coming only seconds after him in a second flood of liquid warmth between them.

* * *

Dean slides into the scrub bottoms unself-consciously, shrugging into the thermal with a grin as Castiel fumbles the sweatpants, almost dropping them. Smirking, Dean retrieves his jeans and t-shirt, tossing them to hang over the top of the shower, stretching the boxers between his hands for a moment before adding them in the space between them.

"Hurry up," Dean says, crossing to the sofa and taking the sweatpants out of Castiel's nerveless hands, cocking his head before dropping to the floor. "Come on, time's a wastin'."

With an effort--the greatest of his life to date--Castiel slides a foot through the helpfully offered opening. There's no particular need to balance himself with a hand on Dean's shoulder--his balance has never been other than perfect--but he does it anyway, placing his other foot through the other opening and watching dazedly as Dean works them up his calves. At mid-thigh, Dean gets to his feet, catching him in a kiss as he pulls them up, and is only vaguely aware of the sound of the door opening, but the exclamation of surprise is impossible to ignore.

Pulling back, Dean cups the back of Castiel's neck, turning to look at James and Nate frozen in the doorway, who stare back, utterly appalled. "Give us a minute?" he asks pointedly, and James stumbles backward, shoving Nate out behind him before closing the door frantically. 

Rolling his eyes, Dean tips Castiel's head back for another leisurely kiss. "Let me get your shirt," he murmurs, nipping Castiel's lip before finding it on the couch and pulling it over Castiel's unresisting head, helping his arms through the short sleeves, then retrieves the discarded flannel and holding it out invitingly before gathering up socks, boots, and coats and reaching for Castiel's hand to tug him toward the door.

James and Nate are standing immobile on the other side, and Dean ushers Castiel to the sink to brush his teeth. In the mirror, Castiel watches in amusement as James and Nate fail to even attempt normal conversation. Dean's stern expression is probably inhibiting, but Castiel can see his eyes are dancing. So he brushes very, very slowly, and very, very thoroughly.

"So," James bursts out in a register more appropriate to the pre-pubescent, eyes widening in horror. "How's it going?"

"Great," Dean drawls. "Just relaxing. How about you?"

"Good," James agrees, leaping bravely between registers to return to his usual warm tenor. "Just--going to use the shower."

"It's a nice shower," Dean agree, straight-faced.

"To get clean!" James says quickly, and Nate squeezes his eyes shut. "Just--clean. Hey, we should get more towels."

Reaching blindly, James closes a hand over Nate's wrist and practically drags him out the bathroom door. Dean just restrains himself before starting to snicker, coming to lean on the counter by the sink as Castiel finishes, turning the water off.

"Kids these days," Dean says mockingly, straightening and looking at Cas, cocking his head. "You got something--" A thumb presses against the corner of his mouth before Dean kisses him, turning him against the counter. Far too quickly, however, Dean pulls back, and Castiel can't quite breathe; no one's ever looked at him before like that. "Let's get back."

* * *

Dean insists on settling him back in bed despite the fact he's not at all tired and leaves him with a pile of written reports of the previous day to read. Necessity has required artistry in presentation be sacrificed, but he does appreciate Joseph's summary of events of the morning and early afternoon.

When Dean returns, he's carrying--a tray. Putting down the report, he watches Dean hip-check the door closed. "Where did you get--"

"Esperanza in our mess," Dean explains, setting the tray on a cleared space on the table beside the bed. Taking one of the large mugs, he hands it to Castiel. "Alonzo made broth, and there's naan and butter. Easier on the stomach when you come out of anesthesia. Also, water and coffee."

Castiel focuses on the cup of golden broth, taking a sip as Dean ducks under the table and comes back with three medium pillar candles. "From the insert," he says, reading Wendy's neat handwriting, "these are for relaxing after a lot of stress. Also good for post-possession therapy--there's _therapy_ for that?"

"There should be," Castiel answers absently, taking another sip and rolling the rich flavor over his tongue. Like liquid sunlight, he thinks, soothed by the feel of it settling inside him. "This is very good. We have a mess?"

"Yep." Lighting the candles, Dean settles on the bed in front of him, settling his chin in his hands and apparently content to do nothing but watch him.

"Did I hurt anyone," he asks quietly.

"I told you--"

"When…" He glances at the medical paraphernalia, then at Dean. "How did they get me back here without being injured?"

"That." Dean makes a face. "I don't remember."

He lowers the cup. "You don't--"

"I don't even remember Joe getting me back here," Dean admits, shaking his head. "Amanda and Sidney got you on the bed--I think--then Alicia told everyone to move before you hurt yourself and--sat on top of you and started talking." He shrugs at Castiel's blank look. "Then Vera…" His lips tighten. "Anyway, she did her thing, and you were out like a light. For eighteen hours. Drink your broth."

Castiel does so, turning that over in his head and searching for something resembling sense to emerge; it doesn't. Then, "Did I hurt you?"

Dean straightens, looking so transparently surprised that he relaxes. "No! Of course not! Told you a long time ago, even out of your head, you wouldn't hurt…." A strange expression crosses his face. "Huh." He shakes his head at Castiel. "Later. So...."

Reluctantly, he lowers the mug. "I should tell you what happened--"

"Right," Dean agrees immediately. "While you finish the broth and a piece of naan. Human body needs food, so get on it."

* * *

The broth, two pieces of naan, and a glass of water later, Castiel finishes his recitation of his interview with Crowley, realizing belatedly he's three-quarters of the way through a cup of coffee as well that Dean made for him. Looking down at the light brown color, he swallows hard and takes another determined drink, relaxing at the memory of watching Dean get up to prepare it correctly; it's nothing like what Crowley gave him.

Dean, unfortunately, is watching. "It was in the coffee first, wasn't it?"

"I think so," he says, taking another drink and banishing the ghost of tainted coffee. "It doesn't make sense, however; there was no reason for him to do that unless he planned to give me that power all along and wanted to assure I wouldn't be killed by it."

"This is Crowley," Dean answers flatly. "He'd do it for kicks. Or just to know, why not both?"

Castiel lowers the cup to regard Dean thoughtfully. "You know him very well."

"Yeah." Dean braces a hand on the mattress behind him. "Okay, look--"

"You expected something like this to happen."

"Yeah, no," he disagrees. "Ply you with demon blood and try to seduce you--"

"I don't think he was serious." Dean doesn't say anything. "Dean, you can't think he--"

"It's _Crowley_ ," Dean interrupts in that flat voice again. Castiel's long suspected there's a great deal that Dean's left out in regard to Crowley and Castiel, but that…. "Anyway--double blind, so it's basically the definition of need-to-know only?" He nods. "Would that include someone knowing whether they signed at all?"

Castiel forces himself not to react. "You mean me."

"What?" Dean blinks at him slowly, eyes widening incrementally before he bursts into laughter, tipping forward and catching himself before landing on his face on the mattress between them. Finishing his cup, Castiel almost wishes he had. "God, no," he says breathlessly after a few moments, wiping his eyes. "Jesus, Cas, seriously? _You_?"

"You're inexplicable faith in my incorruptibility is both touching and utterly wrong."

"It's not inexplicable, one, and two, it's not just that, though that's all I'd need." Dean snickers briefly, shaking himself. "Anyway, yes or no--could them not remembering that they signed be part of the contract?"

Slumping back against the pillows, Castiel sets his empty cup aside and considers. Being neither Crossroad demon or lawyer, that's a complicated question from all angles.

"Yes," he says slowly. "It's possible, but it would skirt very close to breaking even the most technical definition of consent, and I'm not sure the contract would even allow it. Much less anyone sign it."

Dean cocks his head. "Why? What's the difference?"

"Insufficent as they are there are protections inherent in contract law. The person who makes the contract and knowing and willingly agreed to the terms must exist and they can't deal on behalf of anyone else without their full knowledge and permission, or the natural right to speak for them," he explains. "A provision allowing you to forget you signed could be interpreted as the equivalent of signing for an entirely different person that has no knowledge of what you're doing or why."

Dean's eyebrows jump.

"As I said, a technicality, but one that would risk the entire contract," he says. "There's also this: everyone who signed was fully aware of all the terms at the time of signing, and that option would have to be in there. One: no one would agree to anyone else having that kind of potential way out of the contract altogether; for another, they'd know as well as I od that the existence of such a provision could invalidate the entire contract."

"They would?" Dean asks blankly, then scowls. "Actually, thinking about it, yeah. No one likes a loophole unless they're the only ones that can use it."

"Exactly. This is supposed to last--literally--until Lucifer is caged or dead, and there's no time limit; if I’m right about how it must have been structured, the first principle was to assure there was no way out for anyone who might rethink their decision. The contract itself is new, yes, but nothing else within it hasn't already been thoroughly tested over eons at the Crossroads. One mistake--"

"--and Crowley would be first against the wall when the Apocalypse ends," Dean agrees, nodding. "And everyone who signed right beside him." He nods seriously. "So knowing that, ask yourself--would _you_ sign a contract where you know for a fact it could break on suspicion of breaking consent?"

He glares his acknowledgment of the point.

"Incorruptible," Dean says, blatantly not gloating, "but also not stupid." Taking a drink of coffee with a conspicuous lack of triumph, he sighs. "Dude, it's not like we didn't know it wasn't an accident, me coming here," he says, sounding surprisingly philosophical and therefore nothing like Dean Winchester at all. Possibly a nod to variety, he supposes, and trying new things, as everyone else seems to be doing it. "Gotta say, I'm impressed; looks like demons have been using the Host as role models in how to manipulate for fun and profit. At least this time, no one's expecting me to agree to it first. Or even know about it, for that matter."

"Your input seemed to surprise him for some reason."

Dean snorts. "I think it was working so well without me they forgot I was here." He takes another drink. "I think we can both agree--having experienced both--that being fucked by demons for a master plan isn't better than the Host, but at least we're getting variety now."

"We also now know it's possible you can go back to your world." Dean looks up from his cup, eyes unreadable, and Castiel keeps his voice steady. "Once the contract ends, whether or not that's a condition, whoever brought you was a part of it and obviously can return you."

"If that's true--and let's go with that's true just for the fuck of it--if they have to do a blood sacrifice to get the barrier up, what the hell will it take to get the power to send me back?" Dean shakes his head. "Before you answer that demons like blood sacrifices so why not--they like it when they get to keep the power, and it's gotta hurt to have to give it up like this to make the barrier. Unless it's in the contract, they won't be able to resist keeping that kind of power for themselves, and I wouldn't accept it either way. Once this is over, I'll be way too busy making sure it never happens again, contract or not."

"We need to know who signed the contract and was responsible for this part," he agrees, and Dean relaxes minutely. 

"I'd give a lot to find out who's in on this, period," Dean says, and from the distant expression on his face, he's recalling those demons he knows, both from his time in Hell and since then. "You said the contract affects memory of the terms and other signers?"

"Signatories."

"Whatever." Dean rolls his eyes, relaxing even more. "It's backward and forward? Can't remember then and even if they find out about the others later, they can't remember?"

"That's a feature. The memory clause went into effect at the signing and is persistent; even if they did find out about each other, not only wouldn't they remember, they'd be unable to tell anyone about it. That would also include terms that don't apply to them as well."

Dean looks skeptical. "And you believe Crowley about that?"

"No, but I do know contract law," he answers. "At least well enough to recognize the structure and its limitations. In this case, Crowley has no reason to lie; this may look restrictive, but it's the best possible protection he or anyone else could have, and no one who signed this wouldn't have read and possibly had input on every clause. Doubtless Crowley created loopholes for himself, but…." He tries to think how to put this. "They all signed the same contract. What he could use, someone else could as well."

"Crowley's smart enough to know not fuck with any part that would risk the contract," Dean says heavily. "Or himself. You want more coffee?"

He nods as Dean climbs off the bed, trying to decide how to broach the next subject as Dean prepares both their cups. Taking it with a thank you--which makes Dean smile--he waits for Dean to sit down and starts to speak before Dean interrupts him with, "Auction."

Oh, that. "What about it?"

Turning his cup in his hand, Dean cocks his head, looking at him. "You get--the auction, whatever--it doesn't mean anything. It's--presale, doesn't mean you'll…that's not where you're going, Cas, come on."

"It's not important--"

"It's important," Dean states flatly, and startled, he lowers his cup. "You--you don't think you're--not for Falling."

"I'm not subject to human morality in any form," he says slowly. "Angels exist in a state of Grace; we cannot sin, for our actions are always just."

"Like Zachariah?" Dean asks bitterly.

"We answer to our Father, and in His absence, Michael and the Host," he says patiently. "No one else. If you wish to discuss the failures of this particular hierarchy, you'll get no argument from me, but this is natural law, as it has been since time began. It is humanity's privilege to be granted forgiveness for your trespasses; there is no such privilege for angels. I was damned when I rebelled, and Falling only confirmed it."

"The Host--before they left, they could have…." Dean trails off, making a face before taking a drink. "Can't believe I actually said that."

"I would as soon seen to my own torture on the rack as beg forgiveness of the Host." Taking a more moderate drink, Castiel shrugs. "It makes no difference; even had they offered, I would have rejected it."

"What?" Dean fumbles his cup, cursing when coffee splashes over his hands, and quickly retrieves a shirt from the floor to wipe his hands before glaring at Castiel. "Why?"

"I was right."

"What does that have to do with--"

"Forgiveness is given to one who has done wrong," he answers. "I did nothing wrong."

Dean stares at him as if he's never seen him before.

"I do not repent," he says, looking down at his cup. "I feel no remorse. I'm not sorry. I reject forgiveness for what I did; there was nothing I did that required it. I will go to Hell, to Purgatory, to Limbo, to _oblivion_ , but I will not go to Heaven when acceptance is bought with a lie."

"You're kidding." He looks up, raising his eyebrows in polite inquiry. "You would go to Hell for a _principle_?"

"I didn't say I wouldn't make every effort to escape--"

"For. A. _Principle_?" Dean repeats, voice rising with each word.

"Yes." 

Dean blinks at him slowly, tilting his head as if a new angle might bring enlightenment--it never does, he's tried, but hope springs eternal, he supposes--before emptying the coffee cup in a single drink. He wonders if perhaps this is a moment where whiskey might be more appropriate; Dean certainly seems to think so.

"I would try to escape, of course," he adds, wondering vaguely how this conversation went off course and for that matter, where. "Hell is vast, and a great deal of it is one step from anarchy. Crowley knows its geography better than I do, and since apparently he'll be my _defacto_ owner--"

"Stop there." Dean abruptly gets to his feet, leaving his cup on the table both before going to their bags on the other side of the bed. Deciding to allow Dean to do whatever he needs to do, he turns his attention to the room, considering possibilities. 

While he and Dean live in Chitaqua, it would be convenient to have a room here of their own, especially if--as he suspects--Alison and Teresa decide to have children. Not to mention the other residents: their building is very spacious and he doubts that the town's established communal living arrangement is one that will be discarded by many (if any) considering the benefits, not only in defense and pooling of supplies and responsibilities, but care and protection of the more vulnerable members of the community. 

He certainly wouldn't object to living here during their visits; there is much to be said for sharing a single building with the other members of Chitaqua, and the trade of some amount of privacy--and in Chitaqua, it's not as if they have much--is amply compensated with community. Visualizing the layout of the three floors, attic, and basement, he examines the potential for public rooms on the first floor to welcome visitors and encourage casual fraternization with the residents while maintaining security and privacy for those living in their headquarters. The lobby, for example, is unduly large for their purposes--a wall could be built to restrict access to the stairs and eastern rooms, while the western ones---

The bed bounces abruptly, and he looks up to see Dean holding a bottle of the currant wine with a pleased smile.

"Finish that up," Dean advises him, uncorking the bottle and taking a drink. "Okay, now: Jesus Christ, Crowley _bought you_."

* * *

It takes two-thirds of the bottle for Dean to reconcile himself to the fact this did indeed happen, but Castiel has no objections, as it leads to Dean stretching out on the bed and encouraging Castiel to do the same. His tolerance has suffered; one third of a bottle of what he admits is very potent currant wine and logic dictates lying down would be best, and if Dean's stomach is the most convenient available place on which to put his head, he has no objections to that, either.

Not only has his tolerance suffered: so apparently has his memory of what usually happens when one deals with stress with depressives. In retrospect, there was no possible way the subject wouldn't settle on exactly what even when sober should be approached with caution if at all.

"Because I fail at being Dean Winchester," Dean tells him moodily, sprawled against the relocated pillows. "That's why they're doing it again."

Castiel stares resentfully at the bottle in Dean's hand as he takes another drink. "Dean--"

"Five months," Dean tells the bottle. "That was supposed to be it. Now…." He takes another drink. "Two thousand people--more than two thousand--are gonna die to get that thing back up, and that's if it even _works_."

Yes, that. "From my examination of it, there's no reason that it shouldn't work, but I can't claim expertise on the subject, considering some parts have never been used before."

Dean looks down at him with the eyes of a stranger. "That supposed to _help_?"

"In the long term, it would be preferable that the circle fails," he answers obliquely. "In that case, however, those people will die for nothing, and many more both on the roads leading to Chitaqua as well as those defending the town."

"So right now, we're _hoping_ it works and that they can kill everyone on time before it finally breaks, that's what you're saying?" Dean takes another drink. "Angel thing, right? Must be nice not to give a shit."

Castiel rolls his eyes; if Dean wants to pick a fight, he'll have to do better than that.

"It doesn't bother you?" Dean demands, sitting up abruptly, and Castiel finds himself relocated to the mattress. " _How_ can it not bother you?"

Crowley was right about the sensibilities of an angel, and Castiel is perfectly aware his are lacking even by the standards of his own kind. Dean knows, of course, but it occurs to him that, like many things, knowing in theory and experiencing in fact are two very different things.

"There is nothing I can do to stop it," he starts, knowing it won't help, but Dean's expectant silence makes it clear he needs to answer. "I'm not taking their lives, nor arranged their deaths, nor knew about it or was responsible even tangentially--"

"And that makes it okay?"

"It's obscene," he answers calmly. "They'll be found, their names discovered and their faces recorded, and their bodies given a clean burn and the ashes buried with salt to assure their mortal remains are not desecrated. Those who bear responsibility for their deaths will be found and will make full payment for their actions, to me if at all possible."

Dean opens his mouth and then shuts it, frowning at him. "You've been thinking about this."

"I have several potential options for how I'll deal with them," he agrees. Several is an understatement: every time he tries to narrow it down, the list expands. "Why?"

"You think I'm overreacting?"

"Not at all." He can understand the conflict Dean feels without experiencing it himself. "You're not responsible for their deaths."

Dean looks away, finishing the bottle, and Castiel eases it from his hand before any unfortunate impulses lead to a broken bottle and having to clean up glass. He hates cleaning up glass; no matter how careful he is, invariably a sliver ends up in either a finger or his foot, and it hurts.

"It's because of me," Dean says quietly, looking at nothing. "Because I'm here."

"If you weren't here, the world would have ended and we'd all be dead. They're dying because of those who decided to kill them," Castiel answers. "They're a means to an end, just as you are; the only difference is, they have to keep you alive instead of killing you to achieve those ends. Like they assured you were found by me, because they knew I'd protect you." He considers that for a moment. "I did that much, but it was entirely by accident thus far, so no, that wasn't their best idea."

"Dude, come on; we're both Plan Z for ending the Apocalypse here. This is the best they could have hoped for. And I'm not ready, whatever the hell that means. If I--"

"Dean," he interrupts, rolling on his side and reaching for Dean's free hand. "As for being ready, that's a laughably subjective statement on par with an utter lie."

"I'm not." Dean gives Castiel's hand a long look, and hopefully, he tugs it, wanting Dean closer. Rolling his eyes, Dean drops back on the bed but noticeably scoots closer, and also doesn't pull his hand away. "In a fight right now, I'm dead."

"I can think of a demon and several Croats who would disagree," he says casually, watching Dean's face, but no hint of distress appears, nor does curiosity. Dean is past master of avoiding subjects he has no interest in pursuing, and if nothing else, that lack of interest on the discrepancy between his memories and the events at the daycare confirms Amanda's judgment on if he should be told the details. 

Dean makes a face, scooting closer, their joined hands on the bed between them. Threading their fingers together, Castiel looks at the scar tissue revealed by the rolled up sleeve of the thermal, the fading scar of the Croat bite, so close together there's no way now to tell them apart unless you know what it was. 

For lack of sufficient bullets, Dean is alive, but equally true that for lack of whatever drove Dean that day, he would be dead. Castiel has no illusions on what would have happened; no matter how determined Dean might have been, it wouldn't have saved his life. Crowley was only partially correct on one point, and if he didn't lie on the second, he evaded the question altogether; that demon may not have recognized Dean Winchester, but the lack of restraints means however reluctant, it submitted to its own slow dismemberment and torture in obedience to the order of someone of far higher rank, and that means it came from the Pit itself.

It also means that the Pit itself hasn't accepted the rule of a new master, no matter who might now claim the title, not if Dean is still considered in the line of succession, enough to claim obedience by right from one of its demons. Crowley is definitely aware of the former, but Castiel doubts he suspects the latter or he would have been more curious--and far more wary--about this Dean Winchester who now walks the earth.

"That aside," he continues, shifting irresistibly closer (and understanding very well the attraction that draws a moth to a flame), "I'd like to know who would know enough about you to make that judgment."

Dean blinks slowly, not entirely because of the liquor. "Someone's been watching me? How?"

"I can almost accept we've been under surveillance outside Chitaqua," Castiel answers, reaching for a nearby pillow with his free hand and tucking it under his head. "At least, before your inspiring speech to the watch on the scope of their duties and the penalty for failure," which makes Dean's mouth twitch smugly, "but not since. Nothing has tested the wards--other than brownies, due to their recent antipathy for them--and only human sight wouldn't at least elicit a reaction."

Dean starts to answer, then stops, eyes darkening. "Jeffrey."

"He didn't know about you," Castiel answers, carefully shifting the pillow enough to invite Dean to share it, which he does with pleasing alacrity. "He wasn't lying, that much I can assure you."

"He wouldn't need to know anything but where to pick up a message," Dean answers, meeting his eyes. "You don't need Crossroads to be summoned, that's just the easiest. Did Crowley mention him?"

"I didn't ask," he answers, frowning in turn. "I forgot."

"If Crowley sent him, he would have said something. We got it backwards--one plan, the contract, and a lot of masters." Dean's mouth tightens. "A contract with terms that include watching me."

Castiel reviews every time Dean's left the camp both with and without him, growing more chilled by the moment. If Jeffery was the first to be able to cross the barrier when it weakened enough for a summoning, that means…. "Someone in Chitaqua is reporting on you. Jeffrey was there to pick up their report."

Dean starts to say something, then chuckles reluctantly. "I was about to say, only you are that into reports, but actually…it probably was. Fuck knows you trained them into it."

Castiel looks his opinion of that, which makes Dean laugh again, less reluctantly.

"Or," Dean says, abruptly freeing his hand and wrapping an arm around Castiel's waist, "it's something else entirely. We're talking someone--for _five months_ \--knowing who I am and taking notes the entire time without anyone noticing. They live three to five to a cabin; how the hell would they hide it? For that matter…."

"What?"

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Unexpected benefits of your leader being obsessed; you imagine any of 'em willingly dealing with a demon?"

"That only means they had a very good reason to do it."

"Give you that one, but me, I can't think of a single one." He settles himself in a way that suggests bracing for impact. "Tell me about the Misborn."

Castiel licks his lips. "Do you have another bottle?"

* * *

"The Old Ones, the Elder--they're children of Ether alone and came into being in the stillness between nothing and beginning of the universe, before there was anything else," he starts, clutching the half-empty bottle. "They're small children, in a sense, and like all children, they're amoral; they are the center of all things, and all things serve them. Dealing with them is impossible; they have no concept of promises made or broken, they can't be controlled or reasoned with, and despite being individual, their memory is singular and retention almost non-existent. When they came into being, all was only potential, and in a sense, that's all they can be: potential unrealized, for all of time."

"That's kind of sad."

"When they get bored, they've been known to eat galaxies."

"Over it." Dean waves a hand. "So we're all still alive--or we're living the dream of an Elder God, why the _fuck_ did I just say that?" Dean takes another drink

"Cynothoglys was the last born of Ether, brought into being at the very cusp of the beginning of all things, and perhaps because of that, she was different; she observed the cycles of creation and saw beauty not in birth but in the cycle of decay and death. She watched the heat death of the first newborn star and found ecstasy in it. She was like her brethren in this much; she was a child and thought nothing of sharing her discovery with all. She was called the Mortician of the gods: to look upon her was ecstatic death, and none were exempt from it."

"So she--kills you with ecstasy?"

"The death she offered _was_ ecstasy," he explains to Dean's baffled expression, adding, "But your interpretation works as well."

"Not better."

"So noted." He sits up to push a pillow against the headboard, trying to find the right words for this. "The last time she was on earth was for Winchester House for breaking the ban on their kind on this plane, but due to its--properties--and the fact its effect on this plane were limited to the house itself and its grounds, we sent her away again. Very carefully."

Dean's eyes widen. "What a coincidence. We got it's BFF down the hall."

"Quite. To behold Cynothoglys in her true form is to experience ecstatic death," Castiel explains. "She had no form that was safe for any being, even us, to view with impunity, and her kind are incompatible with life on this plane, so a vessel was out of the question." He hears the strain in his voice. "When Lucifer escaped the Cage, he summoned Cynothoglys not to a place, but _into_ something: mortal flesh. Dead flesh, with the symbol you saw me start to place on Jeffrey to trap her within it." He looks away, staring at the quilt from Alison's home. "She had no comprehension of the corporeal form. She was Ether's last daughter, born before there were even stars, who'd never known anything but a child's simple pleasure...and he used his Grace to awaken dead nerves and tortured her out of time. Then he cut her into a thousand pieces, and buried each within the earth at different points in a pocket in time before men walked the earth and left her there to slowly rot. She went insane."

"Christ," Dean breathes sickly. "Why?"

"She was of that which came before the cosmos itself; he couldn't take her power, but I think he meant to find another way to acquire it."

"So he drove her crazy to use her--"

"Not her," he interrupts, forcing out the words. "He could never hope to control her, even after that. Especially after that. Her offspring."

"What?" Dean's bewilderment lasts only a moment, replaced by utter horror. "He _didn't_...."

"Himself, I doubt it," Castiel answers. "He thinks them degenerate; even if he so lowered himself to reproduce, which he wouldn't, it wouldn't be with them, nor would he wish to share his power. But he doesn't object to reproduction in itself, especially when it's to his benefit."

"And the Host didn't give a shit."

"In this case, they cared very much," Castiel says, almost amused by Dean's surprise. "For one, their very existence was offensive to the Host. They don't like the Nephilim either, and those, at least, had the advantage of being born to beings who are native to this universe." He shrugs at Dean's skeptical expression "They were potentially dangerous to angels as well; such a weapon in Lucifer's hand wasn't to be risked."

"That, I buy."

"The Host searched, but they couldn't find where he concealed them, and there was some doubt even if he were successful, the offspring would be viable, or be able to survive here. While I wasn't among those searching--being with you on earth--my guess is they were concealed in the same pocket of time as their parent, but it's not as if there aren't an endless number of those, and Lucifer was unavailable for questioning."

"I'm guessing if they weren't alive, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"That they survived the Host knew before they left, and so did I, but more than that--very little. Up until very recently, they have been hunting in the lands of the dead, which makes sense with their mother's attraction to death, but...."

"Did Crowley tell you that?"

"I told him and he didn't disagree," he answers evasively. "So it must be common knowledge among demons. Our interrogation techniques may need work if--"

"You gonna answer the question or just pretend to?" Dean leans his chin on his hand. "I can wait."

"It was two minutes," he tells Dean. "In the mess. And it was forever. Someone pulled the entire mess out of time, I assume to assure on the off-chance I killed someone, it wouldn't count there."

Dean's expression goes through several permutations before settling on 'resigned'. "I'm just gonna to go with that and move on. Who?"

"I don't remember yet." Dean's pained look inspires him to elaborate. "The memories weren't stored organically, and searching infinite memory--even within a two minute period--takes time. In any case, the Misborn are hunting the Five Rivers, and there's no reason to assume they aren't doing so in all the lands, which means the gates of Heaven as well. They couldn't have inherited rights to this plane from Cynothoglys; that must have come from their sire."

"What are they?"

"I don't know," he answers shortly. "We don't know what Lucifer used to rape Cynothoglys and sire them, and no one's beheld her true form without dying. What they look like, what they can do, are unknown, and until now theoretical; however, if they're waiting outside the barrier, both these questions are of paramount importance."

"Okay, catch me up," Dean says. "How do we even know they're here?"

"She has only a sevenday upon the earth to hunt them per annum to take their lives in payment for Charon's death," he explains. "She wouldn't waste them showing up here unless they are here or will be here within those seven days."

"Going with 'person you don't remember who is definitely a woman'," Dean offers after a moment, inexplicably rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Why would they be here now...." He looks at Castiel sharply. "Alison?"

"The barrier itself. If they are anything like Cynothoglys, they are like children and therefore must have grown bored being in the lands of the dead," he says. "Many things will be curious about what the barrier was concealing, and at best, Alison will remain concealed to anything still outside it until its final collapse. It's possible they'll grow bored before that."

"I get the feeling you think they won't." Dean meets his eyes. "You mentioned Winchester House--you mean Nate? Because he was there? No, I got this one--it put him back together? Contamination, right?"

"The tiniest amount," Castiel agrees and Dean grins briefly, pleased with himself. "But any amount would be enough. They recognize that, even those hybrids, and as I said, they don't like each other. I can't count on their sire giving them fraternal impulses; frankly, I'm surprised they haven't killed each other. It's very possible they'll grow bored if it's merely Alison, a human, but Nate...."

"So we hope--Christ--that the barrier comes back up and--your expression tells me that's not gonna work." Dean licks his lips. "You're saying they'll stick around even then, waiting?"

"As long as he's alive," he answers. "I've been trying to think of a subtle way to give them directions to Winchester House and let it deal with its hybrid cousins when they arrive."

"You aren't even joking, are you?" Dean braces a hand on the bed behind him. "Okay, any way to hide him?"

"A convenient pocket of time, preferably one built to purpose, and the only one I know of is where Cynothoglys was kept. Otherwise--perhaps Chitaqua's wards, but that's a guess and not one we can test now in any case. Teresa's wards may slow them down--if nothing else, they can be distracted--but otherwise, I'm not sure."

"We need to talk to him," Dean says finally, looking grim. "Yeah, it's shitty to have this hanging over him, but maybe--I don't know." He sighs. "So we tell him something--don't know what it looks like or can do--is gonna want to kill him if he finds out he exists. This is gonna be fun."

Castiel tilts his head, frowning. "I wonder how you ease into that particular subject."

"If you think of it, tell me," Dean answers glumly. "One question--you keep saying 'was' ; how did you find out Cynothoglys was dead?"

"It would be in hope rather than any certainty." He looks at Dean. "Lucifer drove her insane and had her raped so he could force her to bear offspring he could control. He couldn't hope to control her, then and certainly not after that. If she's alive--if she's alive, she's in a thousand pieces buried in earth in a pocket universe and will stay there until the end of Time. A daughter of Ether--a child in all ways but age--is trapped forever in rotting flesh, insane, and...." He closes his eyes. "If he could do that to her, the least he could do is show her this one mercy and kill her."

Distantly, he feels Dean's shoulder press against his; he didn't even feel him move. "She was that dangerous, Cas, he wouldn't keep her alive any longer than he had to."

"Lucifer's much like them in this; like a child, he can't bear his will to be crossed, even--and he couldn't control her. He must have hated her for that, and he's so vindictive..." He looks at Dean. "He told me once, mercy is an illusion. Even if he knew what it was--perhaps especially if he did--even knowing the danger to himself, he might very well deny her it from spite."

* * *

Fitting the last bracket into place, Castiel wipes his hands clean on a convenient cloth and picks up the knife, tossing it absently as he studies his work, searching for flaws in either design or execution. While form must always follow function, only an amateur wouldn't know how to combine them to achieve the desired result, but--he's not sure.

He stills at the feel of a hand between his shoulder blades, heat like a branding iron fresh from holy fire, palm skimming up the back of his neck and pushing his hair away for a pair of warm lips pressed just below the hairline, tongue tracing the complicated whirls of the sigils tattooed there. Closing his eyes, he feels a hand on his hip, fingers vise-tight, the lazy stretch of a body against his back as teeth sink into the side of his neck. The walls, volcanic glass polished to a high gloss, reflect only the haziest impression of two figures and the unmistakable spread of great wings before they fold themselves away, lingering only in impression like a retinal burn.

"Look at you," is crooned against his ear, and a sharp chin rests on his shoulder, digging in to appraise his work with the critical eye of one whose technique is without flaw. He should find none here; the ribs, neatly snapped from the sternum but still in contact with the spine, were carefully pulled open and bracketed to the table individually, each cradling a whole lung, still puffed and quivering with trapped air it neither needs nor exists at all, at least not here. The obscene swell of its belly is more questionable, skin pulled shiny and tight; that part, he's not sure about yet. "Not bad."

"The praise of my master," he answers mockingly, "is sweeter to me than wine." He tilts his head, marking the shuddering heart impaled on a spike through the sternum. "Variation of the blood eagle, a mythological form of execution that appears in Norse poetry during the tenth and eleventh century. The body would be opened from the back--I assume for plausibility, which isn't generally a feature of epic poetry in any form, but who am I to judge fictional forms of execution?--to avoid snapping the ribs entirely before removing the lungs." He still hasn't decided what to do with the extraneous organs, neatly piled on the others side of the body and gleaming wetly as the ooze blood and bile onto the table's otherwise immaculately clean surface.

"Still needs some work." He controls the flinch at the casual dismissal, an arm sliding around his waist and jerking him tight against the body behind him, and he can feel the hard press of a cock against his ass. 

It's the belly that's the problem; it has to be. "It's in progress."

"Huh." A hand drops to his cock, squeezing, and Castiel bites back a moan, hearing the low laugh. "That's what I thought. You'd spread for anyone right now."

Flipping the knife over his wrist, Castiel stabs backward and hears the pained grunt when it sinks into the meat of his thigh, laughing at the angry hiss as he grabs Castiel's wrist, jerking the blade free. Twisting his arm against his back, he spins Castiel around and shoves him back against the solid table, bending him backward over the restrained legs, slit open to reveal the clean expanse of white bone, and settling the dull-sharp blade against his throat.

Looking into the enraged green eyes, he smiles. "I would," he agrees. "And do, as much as possible in your extended absences."

"So I heard." The blade parts flesh with a line of welling blood, crushing Castiel's wrist to powdered bone behind him. "Who this time?"

"Too many to count." Grin widening at the helpless rage, he licks his lower lip, watching the shift of attention, the abbreviated thrust between his legs. "You were otherwise occupied, and I was bored."

"You...." Leaning closer, he breathes against Castiel's neck, "Testing boundaries again, Cas? Not getting enough attention, that it?" A slick tongue slides up his throat. "Sometimes, I wonder if I put you back together wrong after all. Only one way to find out; take you apart piece by piece and try again. Maybe--" A deliberate thrust against his cock that makes Castiel's breath catch--and the hilt of the knife Dean carries pressed against his inner thigh. "--leave out a few parts this time, see if that helps. What do you think?"

Castiel snaps the knife into his free hand, pressing it against a vulnerable belly and witnessing the startlement in the wide green eyes with satisfaction. "As you wish, but be aware, I'll take yours in recompense, Dean."

The anger dissolves completely, replaced with amusement-threaded lust, and Dean leans forward for a brutal kiss. Castiel tastes blood, leaning into the rich heat of that mouth and ignoring the blade sinking deeper into his throat, spraying them both with bright blood, humid air heavy with iron and copper and smothering the scent of rotting flesh beneath them. Growling into Castiel's mouth, Dean jerks the knife away, bare palm circling Castiel's neck and squeezing with another shock of molten heat, exquisitely painful to the point of ecstasy. Castiel catches his breath as electric threads winding through him, agonizing pain and euphoria as the bones in his wrist reconstruct themselves, flesh and muscle knitting back together until his throat is once again whole.

Pulling back, Dean grins at him and raises the bloody knife to his lips, licking the blade clean before holding out his hand, and reluctantly Castiel offers him back his own knife. It's still perfectly clean, the flesh it was pressed against not so much as scratched; unlike some people, a blade is his natural weapon, and he knows exactly how to use it and how not to, no matter how distracted he may be.

"Show off." Taking it, Dean looks at the table again and makes a face, tugging Castiel off it and vanishing the blood from them both. "Hold that thought," he tells the thing on the table and snaps his fingers, putting it in suspension (a mercy it certainly doesn't deserve). Reaching out, he brushes Castiel hair back before knotting his fingers in it and shoving Castiel to his knees. "Now answer my question: who?"

Castiel glares up at him resentfully. "I'd have to think. I took their names before I started this."

"Before you started...." Dean looks at the table blankly before comprehension sweeps across his face. "You're fucking with me."

"They're both there," he says bitterly. "I--" 

Dean's hand tightens painfully, and he cuts himself off.

"Just a sec." Petting his head, Dean walks away, circling the table, and Castiel grits his teeth, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor as he listens to the slow footsteps, knowing exactly where Dean is when he pauses and why. It's not right, he knows that, and he doesn't need the reminder.

Then Dean starts to chuckle, low and amused, and only with an effort does Castiel stay where he is, feeling a now familiar heat in his face: humiliation, another word Dean taught him, in all its infinite forms. 

Finally, Dean returns, still chuckling as he drops into a crouch, reaching out to tip Castiel's head up. "Did you even cut the other one up first before...?" 

"The first had teeth and knew perfectly well how to use them," he answers defensively. "Then, anyway."

Dean starts to laugh. "Always an overachiever. You said it was in progress." His fingers tighten viciously. "Cas?"

"When the digestion process is complete, the other one should reconstitute enough to chew its way out," he answers reluctantly, hating Dean's indulgent smile. "Obviously, I was wrong--"

"And after that?"

He's tempted to refuse to answer, but at the moment, it's not worth it. "It was supposed to be a surprise."

"For me?" Dean asks in surprise. "Cas, come on, stop making this so hard."

Castiel glares at him. "Yes."

"I gotta see this from the beginning." Dean cocks his head. "I take it back. It's awesome."

"Your condescension is unappreciated."

"I’m not--"

"You said," he bites out, "that it needed work."

"I didn't know you'd branched out into performance art! Totally different thing," Dean protests, kissing him before he can protest and pulling him unresistingly to his feet. "Wakey-wakey," Dean croons at the table with a snap, watching it return from stasis with a muffled scream, gaze lingering approvingly on the lidless eyes staring in horror at the mirrored ceiling, cheeks bugling with the former contents of its scrotum before its lips were sewn shut, metallic thread as fine as spider silk gleaming dully. Almost as if aware of Dean's attention, the right side of the obscene mound of its stomach bulges weakly, and Dean starts to smile. "That's really something else," he murmurs appreciatively, and Castiel relaxes despite his best efforts: that much is genuine. "Gotta see how this plays out. How many parts?"

"Five acts and an intermission," he answers as it pokes again, causing a slow ripple over the distended flesh. "We're in the intermission before act three now. The material isn't the best, so I'm not sure how long it will take for it to discover the obvious solution to its situation."

"It's what you do with it," Dean says, biting his lip at another, more frantic bulge and sliding a reassuring hand down his back. "The material, it's never gonna be good enough."

Castiel flinches before he can stop himself and feels Dean look at him.

"Don't change a thing," Dean adds, frowning at him for a moment, then glancing back at the table. "Can you hold it, though? Got something to show you."

Curious despite himself, Castiel nods, stopping the progression before snapping the lights off, leaving just enough so its view of itself in the mirrored ceiling remains uninhibited, and closes the ornately decorated door behind them before stepping into the vastness of the innermost Pit.

The discordant cacophony of sound is almost overwhelming: screams and moans, fear and pain and terror and lust complement and compete, trenches filled with the agony of both those on the rack and those that wield it, corrupted souls already twisting into new and far better forms practicing their craft beneath the brutal lash of their superiors. All grow silent, however, when the Master of the Pit walks his domain, fear and adoration washing over Dean, clinging like cobwebs, the shadows of great wings darkening everywhere they touch. Hands snake out to simply touch him as he passes, offering their worship without reservation.

Dean's lieutenants await them, and Castiel smiles slowly at their cringing terror on seeing him, remembering the sensual pleasure of taking payment for that night at his cabin in their agony. Already broken but perfect for Dean's purposes, patiently teaching Castiel the first lessons of his craft on their corrupted souls. It would never be enough for Castiel to have the skills alone, not for Dean; all of Dean's expertise was turned to the single purpose of carefully remaking Castiel on his own image in all things, and part of it was this.

Leaving Dean to deal with his pets, Castiel sprawls in comfort at the base of the black iron chair; aware of Dean's attention, he makes a careful show of not kneeling, Hellhounds dropping their heads to whine their obeisance at his presence, heavy chains rattling as they turn their attention to those surrounding their master, growling softly.

"You might rip them apart for all eternity with my good will, Fido," he tells one, reaching to stroke the sleek head and watching as one of the group moves closer, body projecting blatant, inexpert seduction before one hand comes to rest on Dean's arm. He wonders if she's the one that told Dean. "I think not."

She and two closest to her burst apart at a thought, only enough left to fill the cavern with their screams. The others leap back in terror, but Dean only turns around with a razor smile, and Castiel shrugs, unwilling to be appeased.

Dismissing them, Dean comes to a stop to look down at him. "Any reason you're down there?"

Castiel looks up him and solemnly intones, "We all kneel at the feet of our master in obedience to his will."

"Still sulking, got it. What about, who can tell--the ways of Castiel are mysterious and kind of fucked up." Annoyed, Dean drops into his seat, one leg hooking over the opposite arm, and after a moment, Castiel feels long fingers threading through his hair, stroking slowly. He manages to resist the light pressure for all of a moment--which may be a new record--before leaning his head against Dean's thigh. "Tick-tock, we're on the clock, people, so let's get this show on the road," Dean tells someone mildly, which is as good as a promise of a very, very horrible immediate future.

The groan of massive engines shake the stones beneath them, the great machinery of the Pit grinding to life, chains the width of a man's body dropping to coil on the ground before them. Castiel shifts closer, draping an arm over Dean's thigh, cheek pressed against warm, soft denim, shutting his eyes as Dean's fingers trail down the back of his neck, tracing the sigils again. It was the first thing he received when he rose from the rack remade, kneeling with his face pressed to Dean's lap as Dean carefully wrote his own name into Castiel's true form, _Dean_ , unspoken by any mouth now but Castiel's. Not since Dean claimed the Pit with Alistair's name by right of inheritance and the abject submission and obedience of its occupants by right of conquest after Castiel took it in both his names and for his glory. 

"They gotta know something's going on," Dean remarks softly. "You'd think they'd wonder why no one's seen me around."

"As long as they can sense you're in the Pit, they don't care," he answers lazily. Creating foldspace inside Hell isn't something one does every day, especially nospace. "Technically, this room is within the Pit's domain, they just can't sense the room itself."

"Pit of invisibility," Dean agrees in satisfaction. "Talk about awesome variations on a theme."

The euphoria of slaughter only seemed endless; it did end, and Castiel finds himself turning his eyes more and more to the great doors that open into the Pit and Hell itself beyond it. To bring Hell itself to its knees in Dean's name….

"Soon," Dean murmurs soothingly, tangling his fingers in Castiel's hair as he surveys his domain in satisfaction. An army unlike anything ever seen in Hell forms under Castiel's supervision, broken souls already remade on the rack remade anew here to the singular purpose of serving Dean's pleasure, and his pleasure now is to take the submission of every territory in Hell and sit unopposed on its Throne for all of Time. "In fact--" At the sound of heavy thump, he looks at something over Castiel's head, grin widening. "Check it out."

Obediently, Castiel turns his gaze to the massive stone and metal frame hundreds of feet in length as well as width, hanging from dozens of chains, and straightens as he sees what is bound to it.

"How…." The framework is familiar enough; he designed it to Dean's vague description of its functions and for his pleasure, ancient sigils unseen and unused almost since Time began chained together and carved painstakingly into its surface to create the most powerful bindings ever attempted and until now, theory untested. He's only seen them inert, but now, they're everything he imagined; glowing sullen red and black, limned in sickly yellow and dead white, responding to the presence of the limp figure pinned to the framework with a thousand individual, gleaming screws driven through its true form. 

Broken, he realizes, unmade but not remade anew, not yet. Searching its mind, he finds it empty of thought, of volition, stripped even of their true name; everywhere within belongs to Dean.

Against his will, his eyes drift to the great sweep of gleaming wings stretched out on either side to their fullest extent, grinding hunger and gnawing envy and hatred and _want_ so strong he can barely breathe. They're whole, undamaged, spared even a single scratch, each carefully confined in individual cages worked in dozens of protective and restraining sigils that are bolted directly to the frame. The only difference he can find from his design is the addition of padding in the cages, protecting each wing from the least damage should it awaken and try to move them. 

The Pit is utterly silent, awestruck as they behold the massive frame on which is displayed the impossible, prostrating themselves before the proof that the Master of the Pit broke an angel on the rack of Hell.

He tears his gaze away from the frame to look up at Dean. "You did it."

Dean laughs softly, and for a moment, rage courses through him, betrayal that he wasn't told or even allowed to watch, which only makes Dean laugh harder.

"Couldn't afford the distraction," Dean says, still laughing. "Don't tell me you wouldn't have been; just knowing you were there would do it."

Castiel eyes the cluster of forms near the frame resentfully. "And they weren't?"

"I thought I might need fodder, and was I right about that." Long fingers close vise-tight on his face, green eyes meeting his, and in an instant he experiences it all in an endless, euphoric rush, the expertise of the Pit's greatest torturer practicing his craft. With a very volatiles subject at that. "See? Just like you were there. Better?"

Subsiding, he nods reluctantly, and the tight hold loosens, thumb stroking across Castiel's lower lip. 

"Awesome." Dean gives him an exasperated look. "Now, you gonna stop sulking like I forgot to bring you flowers and didn't take you to prom and _get up here_?"

He looks up at Dean in bewilderment. "What's prom?"

"Fuck my life."

"As you wish." Reluctantly, he stands up, taking the space between Dean's legs--definitely one of his favorite places to be--and slumps back, eyeing the cluster of Dean's lieutenants hovering near the frame. "They should be kneeling. We all should be."

"They are," Dean answers easily, following his gaze. "They never got up, not since I let them off the rack. They don't even remember how." Then, "Okay, I gotta know. Not that I don't appreciate you offering atonement for your sins--especially like that--but what'd those two do to piss you off that much? They're all gonna be shitty lays, Cas, not like that was a surprise. Fuck knows you've tested that enough."

He considers several possible answers before deciding on the truth. "They propositioned me."

Dean waits. "And?"

"They contravened the will of their Master in even thinking it, much less doing it," he answers. "You weren't available to discipline them for their presumption, so I did so in your name."

Dean blinks at him. "But--"

"It was an insult to us both," he continues, something very stupid taking control of his tongue.

"And when you do the propositioning, it's _not_?"

"Then it's just to you. Obviously."

Dean opens his mouth again; Castiel ignores him.

"Not that I can entirely blame them, but they were the ones in front of me, so they pay for you as well," he continues flatly, staring at the frame. "They had no reason to assume...the material was insufficient, is that why? It couldn't be you, so it must be me."

"You... _what_?"

It takes him two tries to say it. "Made wrong."

The resulting silence is almost painful before Dean says, "Get out." A hand clamps down on his shoulder, digging into the bone deep enough to leave fingerprints. "Not you."

The vastness of the inner Pit is cleared on seconds; in all honesty, Castiel can't blame them.

"Look at me." The deceptively pleasant voice is enough to elicit instant obedience in the sane (and he is, on occasion). Just as deceptive is the interested expression, head cocked curiously. "Who told you that?"

"Dean--"

"One more time," Dean interrupts, expression unchanged, but Castiel stills, mouth dry. "Or I'll rip the answer out of you piece by piece. Who told you that?"

"No one," he answers. "You did, technically, but I guessed before that."

Dean's expression dissolves into infinitely less dangerous bewilderment. "When did I--oh come _on_ , you pissed me off with that bullshit! I can't stop you from fucking around--"

"Yes, you could."

"But-- _what_?"

"Just because you were unhappy with me when you said it doesn't mean it's not true."

"That it's _not true_ means it's not true!" Dean snaps. "Where do you even get--"

"Why won't let me kneel?"

Dean slumps back in the chair, rolling his eyes. "You gotta be fucking with me."

"I have the right--"

"You don't have any rights," Dean interrupts softly, very pleasantly indeed. "None. Except what I give you." 

Through a haze, Castiel sees Dean's eyes widen as he says, "Okay, wait--," but he jerks away, evading Dean's restraining hand and gets to his feet as the room echoes with the sound of shifting stone, solid rock splitting open wide everywhere he looks and pouring noxious fumes in ghostly green-yellow, cracks spidering up the wall and shaking loose a rain of rock the size of cities. Fascinated, Castiel blinks down dizzily at the one splaying open at his feet, wondering how deep it extends, how far he might fall; it looks like forever.

Then an arm clamps around his waist, jerking him back from the edge, and Dean breathes in his ear, "Control it. _Now_."

It only takes a moment now, shutting it down effortlessly, and as the dust settles, Castiel observes the cavern is both much, much larger and far craggier (thankfully, the frame and thing restrained upon it are untouched). It's somewhat more difficult to navigate as well; except where they are, the floor's dropped several hundred feet, rising in some areas miles high. He starts to check but Dean's arm stops him, and after a moment, he realizes Dean is shaking and--

He twists around to look at Dean incredulously, who drags him back two steps before falling into the chair and dissolving into laughter. Feeling unsettled, Castiel searches for the early anger and finds it gone entirely; Dean's sheer enjoyment drowns it out entirely. How typical.

"You shouldn't have let me do that," he says finally when Dean seems calm enough to hear him, and watches in bemusement as he almost starts again before making an effort to control himself. "I...forgot."

"Now why," Dean asks, hooking a knee back over the arm and grinning at him, "would I want to do that? Only wish I hadn't cleared everyone out." He cocks his head. "Come here."

Taking a deep breath, Castiel slowly approaches, perching uneasily on the edge of the chair.

"There's nothing wrong with you," Dean says quietly. "I made you, Cas. I couldn't do it wrong."

"It wasn't you." He makes himself look at Dean. "Even you couldn't compensate material that was irreparably flawed."

Dean groans, head dropping against the high back. "Cas, kneel."

He just barely restrains the urge to tell Dean to fuck himself (a glance at state of the Pit helps), making an elaborate production of it, and surreptitiously flattening the surface beneath him before settling on his heels. He's tempted to prostrate himself just to see if that gets a reaction, but Dean projecting boredom is somewhat inhibiting. 

"Get up," Dean says finally, an edge in his voice, his eyes flickering to the frame and narrowing before settling on Castiel again once he's on his feet. "Was it good for you?"

"You know what I meant." Dean looks at him without expression. "Everyone else has the privilege of kneeling before the Pit to offer their submission to you. Why not me?"

Dean's gaze returns to the frame, narrowing speculatively. "It have any idea what's going on?"

"What--"

"Check for me again," Dean interrupts, looking at it thoughtfully, and Castiel tenses. "Fool me once, pay for that shit tenfold, but twice--not happening."

Lips tightening, Castiel turns his attention it and focusing until he's certain. "No. It's still as you left it. Why?"

"I have plans for it," Dean answers with a shrug. "Other than a cool wall hanging: gives the room a certain something, you know? I'd have to make some changes if I killed it now."

"Why kill it now?"

"You kneel for me," Dean answers casually. "It's mine, and no one sees it but me. You ever do that in front of the Pit, I'll purge it before you hit the ground."

Castiel stills, mouth dry.

"You're mine," he continues, green eyes fixing on Castiel lazily. "Not the Pit's, Hell's, the Host's, Heaven's: _mine_. You have no rights but those I give you, and no one and nothing else can claim anything from you but me. You wanna bring the whole place down around us and kill everyone you see, I don't give a shit, but you don't have the right to give to anyone else what's mine. Got it?"

He gives himself a moment to absorb that. "You could have told me that before."

"My bad, I thought it was obvious, but next time, I'll tattoo it on you, along with my name." The chill expression fades into a smile. "Feel better?"

"I do, yes." With a snort, Dean coaxes him down until his head's tucked against Dean's shoulder, fingers trailing soothingly down his back.

"There we go," Dean says softly, in a voice no one but Castiel ever has the privilege of hearing, palm settling on his hip as his thumb rubs slow circles in the hollow. "Those two in there--last ones I need to hang with the others when I'm done with 'em? After you're done, of course: I gotta see what comes next if that's just the start. Five acts and an intermission?"

He looks up suspiciously, but the sincerity is unmistakable. "You never disciplined me. Just them." Dean shrugs. "I thought it was me. Because I was flawed, and you couldn't fix it so you wouldn't even bother trying."

Dean sighs, foot kicking idly against the side of the chair. "Material's always flawed, Alistair told me. No way around that, you just work with what you got. I couldn't prove him wrong, and fuck if I didn't try." Abruptly, he chuckles. "Then I figured it out, what I was missing; go back to the beginning and fix the material first. He never even thought of it."

"Did it work?"

"First time I tried," Dean agrees, a smile in his voice. "Only that once, but that's all I needed; I knew when I was done I'd never get anything close to that again. Best I ever made, right from the start."

Castiel reviews Dean's work, searching for that one, not sure if he's more annoyed that he can't find it, or angry that it exists at all. "Who?"

"You. I'll add that to the tattoo, remind me." Dean ruffles his hair when he looks up. "I made you. I'm not gonna discipline you for being exactly what I wanted." Dean's gaze drifts to a distant corner of the Pit, where many, many (many) chains hang with those not him, doing their penance on very large hooks until Dean remembers what they did and takes one down for further expiation of their sins. "Them, not so much." He wrinkles his nose fastidiously. "Not a bad way to weed out the stupidest, though."

"I'll stop." He shivers at the soft brush of lips against his forehead, almost wishing he'd never started in the first place. "I'm sorry I interrupted your presentation to the Pit." He looks at it in the intricate framework and the thing on display, awe thrumming through him. "It's a wonder to behold."

Dean snorts. "This is for you. Not like anyone else could appreciate it."

"I beg to disagree."

"Feel free, I love when you beg." Dean tips Castiel's head back, smirking. "Pay attention: I need your help for the next part."

He can't imagine what he could possibly offer to someone who could accomplish _this_. "Other than the most unique wall-hanging in all of Time, I assume." Dean twists his fingers in his hair. "You want to use its Grace. It'll obey you now, of course, but yes, it can transfer it to you if that's what you were wondering. Through me, of course."

"I can't use it like you can, though," Dean says, shaking his head. "Only an angel can do that. However, that's not important this time." Castiel looks at him incredulously. "This was just a rough draft. Just wanted to see if I could even do it."

"There was no doubt of that." It's true; he never doubted Dean could, simply if he'd have time before someone noticed its absence, much less somewhere safe to do it. It's one of the reasons he created nospace for Dean, after all. "Its wings were the most vulnerable part of it; it might have been faster if you'd started with those."

Dean grins down at him. "And that's the other reason I didn't let you watch. You would have told me that, and I would look like an idiot not taking obvious advice, especially coming from you about that. Not this time: they were the only part of it that mattered, had to keep them perfect."

He lifts his head. "Why?"

"You're gonna love it." Abruptly, he pulls Castiel across his lap and stretching an arm to protect him from the sharp edge of the armrest before kissing him. Draping an arm around Dean's neck, Castiel bites down on his tongue, starving for him, the taste of blood lighting up every nerve. Dean growls, jerking open Castiel's jeans before pulling back with a snarl. "Those last two," he rasps. "Did you fuck them?"

"No."

Dean's eyes narrow, cupping his cock and squeezing brutally. "Did they fuck you?"

"No," he breathes, arching into Dean's hand. "None of them."

Dean's mouth falls open, and Castiel grins; it was definitely worth it. "I give to no one else what's yours."

"You let me think...." He trails off, glaring at him, torn between rage and something like relief. "Every time."

"You didn't believe them?" he asks innocently. "Surely they told you."

"I ripped out their tongues first," he answers distractedly. "Wouldn't have believed 'em anyway. You...."

"After you were done with them, you'd come to me still wearing their flesh and their blood," he says, watching Dean through half-closed eyes. "I would taste it on your skin and see what you did to them in your mind, and know you did it for me. I'm going to miss that very much."

Dean glare slowly turns into amused approval, laughing against his mouth. "And you thought there was something wrong with you. Next time I take one down, you get to watch first, how about that?" Dean kisses him again, but pulls back far too quickly. "Our wall ornament."

" _Now_?" At Dean's adamant nod, Castiel reluctantly turns to look at it "What about it?"

"The wings--removing them, will that kill it?"

Castiel tenses, and Dean's hand lands on his chest, holding him in place as the floor shivers before he shuts it down. "I survived."

"Yeah, but it's not you." Dean cocks his head, gazing at it thoughtfully. "Important part is the wings anyway; we're gonna take 'em."

He nods: two wall ornaments are always better than one.

"For you."

He looks up at Dean. "What?"

"They took yours," Dean answers. "Only fair."

Castiel snaps his gaze to those restless wings within their protective cages, shoulderblades itching, burning as Dean's hand skims down his back in reminder of what he lost and never thought to have again; that's why they're undamaged.

"What do you think?" Dean murmurs in his ear. "Think we can do it?"

He wants them too badly to say no, but-- "I've never done it before."

"Then we try, try again." He nods stiffly, and Dean nuzzles his neck, voice soft. "Everything takes practice, and we're gonna get 'em all, so got all the material we need. By the time we get to the big event, we'll have it down."

Yes. "Lucifer." He turns his head, hand on Dean's chest to allow no more than a brush of their lips. "Fuck me. After you wake it up."

Never looking away, Dean snaps his fingers, and in his peripheral vision, Castiel sees a thousand eyes flutter open, sense returning; even broken, there's enough for it to see him beneath the Master of the Pit and understand what it sees.

"Exactly what I wanted," Dean breathes, and Castiel tugs him down, opening his mouth for Dean's kiss, offering his abject adoration and devotion as he has since he rose from the rack.

Tipping his head back, he sucks in a breath as Dean's tongue traces the invisible line where he healed his throat and toward the pulsing jugular. " _Ad maiorem tuī gloriam_ ," he whispers, threading his fingers through Dean's hair and arching when Dean's teeth break the skin. "Always."

* * *

He wakes up to the sound of screaming, unable to breathe, confused the give beneath his body isn't flesh or the cold of solid iron; it's only a moment--but a very long one--before he remembers he's in Chitaqua's headquarters in Ichabod. Blinking, he stares up at Dean hovering above him and realizes first that he's pinned to the bed, and second, that his throat hurts. It's possible he was the one that was screaming.

"Get out," Dean snaps, never looking away from him. "Shut the door and don't fucking open it again without an order from me or I'll assume it's something trying to kill us and shoot first and not ask shit later."

The sound of the door slamming shut tells Castiel that wasn't directed at him. He doesn't bother testing Dean's hold on his wrists; he could break it easily. It's far more important that he didn't do it before.

"You okay? Just nod or shake your head," Dean asks encouragingly. Slowly, he shakes his head, and Dean lets out a breath; that was apparently the right answer. "You okay?"

He couldn't have stopped the words that spill out between them even if he didn't need to tell Dean, almost as if they were waiting; half-way through, he closes his eyes to spare himself even a glimpse of Dean's face. Finally, it's over, and taking a breath, he waits what feels like the length of immortal and mortal life for Dean's horror and rejection.

Dean says, "So that was a shitty dream."

Castiel jerks his gaze to Dean before he can stop himself. "What?"

"Huh?" Dean frowns, easing back to sit on the mattress beside him. "Thought mine were bad. Mine at least don't qualify as a creepy-ass mirror universe episode of my life."

"That was a _dream_?"

"Well, nightmare...wait. What did you think it was?"

"I don't dream. At least, I never remember them." Sitting up, Castiel tries to reconcile what he knows of dreams and fails. "There were no tadpoles."

"Uh." Dean stares at him as if he just changed shape; surreptitiously, he checks to be sure he didn't. "Let's go with 'what'?"

"Alicia told me about one of hers," he explains distractedly. "She married a sea plumber and they had tadpoles."

"Tadpoles." 

"Also, a cake, which she looked for after she woke up and was unhappy when she couldn't find it. Yours were..." Well, none involved fucking the Master of the Pit in front of one of his Brothers, which he assumes Dean is grateful for and he is as well. "Not like that." He looks at Dean in bewilderment. "A _dream_?"

"Congratulations," Dean says glumly, resting his chin on his hands. "Welcome to the human ability to make sleep more miserable than your actual life." He looks at Castiel speculatively. "Thought it was a vision or something?"

"My life is going very well at the moment," he says, falling back against the pillows. "Personal life, that is; I have one. It seemed rather inevitable that would go terribly wrong somehow. Developing clairvoyance specifically to show me how much wouldn't be a surprise, all things considered."

Dean opens his mouth, then nudges him over before dropping down beside him, bouncing the mattress. "I'm trying to work out an argument on why that's crazy but--dude, that could happen. Surprised it hasn't happened to me, now that I think about it." He turns his head to see Dean scowling at the ceiling. "Anyone else, it'd be breaking up, cheating, dying, but not us, no. We worry about...I'm not even sure what to call that."

"Dreams do that?"

"Dreams can do anything," Dean tells him with a sigh, rolling on his side and pushing himself up on an elbow. "They don't mean anything. I mean, unless you're being dreamwalked or clairvoyant--which not saying couldn't happen, but no. Besides, you said his lieutenants were your--" Castiel waits as Dean searches for an appropriate and yet not utterly appalling description. "You practiced on them."

"I was hoping you could think of an acceptable euphemism," he admits.

"Glad to help. So--total dream thing, people randomly showing up." 

"It wasn't random." He takes a deep breath. "The demon that attacked Crowley--I knew her."

"The one that almost put him on his ass?" Dean grins. "Wish I could have seen that. So who was it?"

"Erica."

"Okay, who..." Dean shuts his mouth, a strange expression crossing his face, there and gone before Castiel can define it. "Dean's team leader and full time fucking assassin Erica? _That_ Erica?"

He nods shortly.

"So there's justice in the world after all," Dean says softly, and startled, Castiel sees Dean's faint smile, an echo of the one worn by the man seated on the throne of the Pit. "Can't think of a better place for her. Any of them."

"Then you'll be unsurprised to hear it's likely they're all there," Castiel says quietly, and Dean's gaze snaps back to him, distant look and the Master of the Pit vanishing. "Crowley told me when I questioned his control over her that all of them would learn."

Dean abruptly sits up. "Crowley's loaner demons are _Chitaqua hunters_?"

"More than one, at least," he answers, looking at Dean. "It's not just that. My Brothers knew perfectly well I was instructing humans on earth. The moment they passed through the gates of Hell, they would have been claimed by my Brothers, possibly in person."

"Because they were pissed at you and were going to take it out on them?" Dean cocks his head. "Yeah, no, not seeing the problem."

"Dean--"

"How many people did they kill?" Dean asks, voice quiet. "You never told me that part."

"I’m not sure--"

"Your guess would be as good as counting the bodies," Dean interrupts. "I'm saying, if it was under a hundred, I'd be really surprised."

He doesn't answer, but that's an answer in itself.

"And that's just the body count," Dean continues flatly. "Joe--he said they had help and some of it at the point of a gun. There was a reason half the goddamn camp hated them even after you stopped the slaughter of the unbelievers. They stopped killing, yeah, because you made them; they didn't stop being what they were. Hell--only problem I have with it is they would have fit right in before they went on the rack. Surprised they didn't jump off before it even started. They had nothing human in them to give up."

"Twenty-five years. It took twenty-five years to break her in Hell. Amateurs: on earth, it only took three days." He pauses, aware of Dean watching him. "I was her instructor. She was excellent at hand to hand combat, less so in strategy and tactics, she liked the color yellow and used to have cats. She had a lover who trapped her and her entire family in their basement when she brought him home for Thanksgiving and spent the day slowly killing them all in Lucifer's name, for his greater glory."

Beside him, he feels Dean still.

"He left her for last. When he finally got to her," he whispers, "he told her that he loved her, and eviscerated himself so he could die in her arms--or rather, on top of her bound body on the floor in a puddle of her family's blood. It was three days before someone found them. He was dead, lying in her lap; she was catatonic. Dean and I both recognized her immediately; we saw it on the news at Bobby's. It was a very popular topic on every station." He meets Dean's eyes. "What she did was an atrocity, so her punishment is to serve in Lucifer's army when it comes to earth, kneel in the shadow of he who destroyed her. Truly justice is served; if only I could discover what she did that earned her those three days in that basement, trapped beneath her lover's dead body and lying in her family's blood. Twenty-five years on the rack; that was nothing compared to that."

The silence that follows is almost painful. "What happened to her," Dean says finally, "wasn't her choice, and it was...Christ." He hears Dean take a deep breath. "What she did at Chitaqua, though--that was her choice, all of it."

"The reporters--they wrote about how she said she prayed. The Host wouldn't answer, of course, but--I was still an angel then."

"Cas--"

"If I'd listened, if I'd heard her, I could have stopped it," he continues bleakly. "The Host contravened the order we were no longer permitted to intervene at our own discretion many times, and I'd rebelled anyway, so why didn't I--"

"Cas, no--"

"Justice: where is it to be found here, who will make payment for what was done to her and when? Who bears the responsibility? Lucifer's crime in commission, the Host's in deliberate omission, or mine in sheer lack of interest?" he demands. "Two years I was an angel after I rebelled, and I could have--I _should have_ \--"

Then Dean's arms are around him, pulling him against the warmth of his body, breath rasping painfully in his chest, and he only realizes he's crying when he feels the growing dampness in the thin cotton of Dean's t-shirt.

"I hate her," he whispers brokenly, feeling Dean's hand stroking down his back, murmuring reassurance he can't hear through the rush of anger. "But when I think of Lucifer, what he's done--compared to that, it's...."

"I know."

Pressing his forehead against Dean's shoulder, Castiel breathes obscenities from every language he knows, sibilant hisses and rough-edged consonants and elongated vowels slipping effortlessly from between his lips. For the first time, human languages come more naturally than his own native tongue, unchanged and unchanging since before time began, since before Lucifer Fell. Enochian has no concept of betrayal so far beyond forgiveness: no word to express how the least of Lucifer's crimes was his choice to Fall from Heaven and turn his back on what he was meant to be: nothing that can encompass the crawling cowardice and brutal indifference of the Host in abandoning the world, their shared responsibility in every single human death: clawing grief and helpless rage and the scars they've left that he wonders if he'll always feel burning beneath the surface of his skin. 

He runs out of breath long before he runs out of languages, panting helplessly into the fragile warmth between their bodies, fingers twisting numbly in the fragile cotton of Dean's t-shirt. Distantly, he can feel the heat of Dean's hand against the back of his neck, warm breath stirring his hair with every exhale: easy, as if he could stay like this for as long as Castiel needs: as if he could do it forever.

Eventually, Dean coaxes him to lie back down, rearranging the blankets before joining him beneath them, and Castiel doesn't bother resisting the implicit invitation, curling against the solid warmth of Dean's body with a tired sigh.

"Dreams don't mean shit," Dean tells him quietly. "You know that, right?"

"I know that," he agrees, thinking of that massive frame. "It can't be reproduced on earth."

"What?"

"The framework." Dean doesn't stiffen or pull away, so he continues. "A circle of holy fire has limitations and it can--with an effort, granted--be broken from within. It's a mutable, fire; it lacks permanence. Nothing can hold him long--except the Cage, obviously--"

"Cas."

"It doesn't mean anything, I know," he agrees. "But it's not often one sees a manifestation of an idea that one once considered while very, very stoned to the last detail. When you weren't thinking of Caging him after all, but something that would be ideal for his eternal torture."

He feels Dean nod, chin brushing against his hair.

"I took your memories of Hell," he continues brittlely. "I saw them all, and I thought I understood. You should have told me to fuck myself for the presumption. I didn't understand at all."

He feels Dean's chest lift and fall in a sigh. "How much do you remember now?"

"The agonizing pain portion of the evening is still something of a question mark, but I find myself uninterested in attempting further recall." He closes his eyes. "The rest is now fully intact. They're fully accurate, I assume; experience is very different from theory."

Dean does him the courtesy of not pretending not to understand. "Yeah. That's what it's like." There's a short silence before he adds, "By the way, looking at you? Still not a problem."

Castiel hears himself say, "I did wonder, I never told you that. He was always so frustrated afterward. I could reproduce what he showed me, but that was never enough, and I never understood why, what I was doing wrong."

Dean stills, hand frozen against the small of his back.

"You may have forgotten that conversation, it was a long time ago--"

"I remember." It's barely a breath.

"--but I did think about it, why he taught me what he remembered from the Pit. I may have thought you actually didn't know and wanted an answer. On occasion, I miss obviously rhetorical questions."

"I never should have said that."

Castiel pulls back, evading the belated grasp of Dean's hands and sits up, glaring into the guilty green eyes. "Or you could have told me you knew what he was doing! Unless you're going to protest you weren't sure--"

"I was sure." Rolling onto his back, Dean takes a deep breath before he pushes himself up and looks at him, and for a second, Castiel's in the Pit, in that chair, looking at the same person who told him that he knelt for no one but him. "And I told you why, Cas. Later, yeah, I was a dick throwing that at you the first time, but I told you." 

After Jeffrey, yes. "I thought...."

"You didn't believe me," Dean says flatly. "Just admit it, Cas, I saw it on your face."

"I didn't think you were lying."

"Could have fooled me. From where I was standing, it sure as fuck looked like it." Dean shakes his head. "Christ, he's dead, I can-- _you_ can--literally _count_ the ways he fucked you over, and you still would rather blame _me_ for saying it than him for doing it!"

"I don't...." He searches Dean's face. "You think I'm doing that?"

"I'm saying, good thing this isn't a competition or anything," Dean retorts, "or I'd really be starting to wonder why the fuck I can't ever win, even by default."

Castiel tries to think of a reply to that, but his mind's curiously blank, everything in suspension. Looking away, he focuses on the complex pattern of the quilt, but even grasping that seems beyond him at the moment, chaos incarnate. 

"Okay, any way you can--forget, not think, whatever--about me saying that?" Dean says abruptly, but Castiel can't trust himself enough at the moment to correctly interpret his tone of voice.

"Not if it's true."

"It's not." Then, "Cas look at me. It's not--"

"Do you want me to leave?" Where he's not sure; for some reason, he can't remember which rooms are occupied, either. If asked, he's not sure he could accurately state how many floors there are.

"No!" The sheer volume of the answer makes him look up, and he sees Dean just stop himself reaching for him, sitting back on his heels. "I fucked up, Cas. I’m sorry."

"Do you...." He wonders how it is he can have been on earth for two and a half years in mortal form and almost three as an angel, and still fail so terribly at the most fundamental parts of this. In retrospect, it's unsurprising he's far better at learning torture mechanics and how to enjoy it. "Do you think it's a competition?"

"No," Dean answers with a certainty he wishes he could trust himself enough to believe. "I don't." 

He also wishes he could trust himself enough to believe Dean's telling the truth. "It's not."

"I know." Closing his eyes, Dean makes a face. "Look, I can--"

"Don't say it, it becomes ridiculous if we both offer to leave the room without any idea of where to go."

Dean's mouth twitches reluctantly. "Dude, speak for yourself. I was thinking the Jacuzzi downstairs."

He fights down any sense of reassurance from that. "Is this a tragedy for the ages, an adamant disagreement, or a fight? I defer to your expertise."

"I'm going with shitty fight," Dean answers, shoulders relaxing, and that, he trusts. 

"And in the morning?"

"I'll make you breakfast." He grins suddenly. "Or go get it from the mess, no idea who's on mess duty. Now that we have a mess."

That seems clear enough. "Don't leave me."

"That was never gonna happen," Dean answers, very certain indeed. "Look, get some sleep--both of us sleep, wake up, food, deal with--Christ," he interrupts himself, sounding incredulous as he pushes back the blankets invitingly, "we actually need a list for that."

"I'll make one in the morning." 

Dean makes everything very easy; directing him to the appropriate spot, rearranging the blankets, and easing down beside him, and without any effort on his part, he's exactly where he wants to be. Dean is very warm, and he's surprised to realize that he's very tired and might possibly go back to sleep. "It's not a competition."

"You get this wasn't you, right?" Dean asks, fingers stroking slowly down the back of his neck. "It's..." There's a long pause, but the warm touch continues unbroken. "You shouldn't have to--to know that. What you got from Crowley." Then, more quietly, "Or what he was trying to do. I shouldn't have said a goddamn thing."

Castiel nods, trying to unknot his fingers from Dean's t-shirt and failing. "Dean, it's not a competition--"

"I know, I swear, that was..." Dean trails off. "After breakfast, I'll have something to go there."

"I look forward to hearing it." He can barely keep his eyes open, but try, try again. "It's that--you don't have anyone with which to compete." If he could think, perhaps he'd be able to tell if that made sense. "For a long time now."

That made no sense at all.

"Right," Dean says a little blankly. "Thanks."

Close enough. "Good night."

"You, too." Castiel fights back a yawn, pressing his forehead against Dean's t-shirt and waits. "Look this is going to sound stupid--and really fucked up, I get that, but--"

"I'm certain I wouldn't dream about you ruling the Pit, beginning a war against Lucifer, and then losing."

Dean blows out a breath that sounds suspiciously like relief. "Just--it'd be salt in the wound, you know?"

He does, actually. "Be comforted, I'm certain the inevitable progression was a horrific and bloody campaign ending in inevitable, and equally horrific, victory. Perhaps even with a party afterward."

He feels Dean nod. "Yeah, thanks. Let's never talk about this again."

He thinks about answering, but he sleepily assumes silence is confirmation, and concentrates on the slow rhythm of Dean's fingers against his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings (in no particular order): explicit torture, which includes the following - sexual torture, torture as performance art, ritual torture, cannibalism, autocannibalism, description of torture; explicit violence; D/s themes; eroticized horror; bloodplay
> 
> References to: rape, sexual assault, necrophilia, forced pregnancy, some in the past
> 
> If it helps, it's going to be pretty obvious when it starts and where it's going. Subtlety wasn't a feature here.
> 
> Note: if you feel I missed something, for God's sake tell me for I, too, am squeamish as hell. If you need more information, email me at seperis at gmail and I'll be awake and caffeinated by 8:30 AM CST. Okay, nine. Ish.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.) This was going to go up on Wednesday, but I was exhausted after Sunday and took off today, slept until noon, and felt human. The next chapter won't go up until probably Tuesday of next week, since Mondays after a Sunday validation usually suck for me and they seem to never stop.
> 
> 2.) The chapters have been jumped by two, but I still have two chapters that are see-sawing close to my (now) 30K limit because _come on_ , who does thirty thousand word chapters? Not me, if I can help it. The max could be twenty one, depending on if I use this ending or move it to the next book, just warning you now.
> 
> 3.) Thank you to TKodami, Molly, and WarKittens for their corrections, fact-checking, and generally being awesome.
> 
> 4.) This chapter switches point of view fairly frequently. You'll see why.
> 
> 5.) [Map of the Forum Romanum](http://www.emersonkent.com/images/republican_forum.jpg), just in case you need it.
> 
> See notes at the end when you're done.

_\--Day 154--_

Climbing out of bed at dawn, Dean draws a soothing hand down Cas's back, annoyed by the knocking at the door. "Be right back."

Cas's eyes slit open to confirm he will be, yeah, and better be fast. Got it, thanks. Grinning, Dean ruffles his hair and takes a moment to watch Cas stretch like a cat beneath the blankets before getting to his feet and padding to the door; his only regret is he's not armed and next time, he's gonna be.

When he opens it, Matt's and Jody's worried faces drain away the annoyance. "Everything okay?"

"Alicia."

Like that, Dean feels Cas wake up all at once, sitting up in the bed behind him. "Come in," he says in resignation, shutting the door behind them and flipping on the lights as Cas slides to the edge of the bed. Sitting down beside him, he motions them to the two chairs. "What's up?"

Sitting awkwardly, they exchange nervous looks before Matt takes a deep breath. "She was fine last night, working with Naresh and everything, went to bed at an Alicia-reasonable hour...."

"Before midnight," Cas supplies, nodding. 

"Woke up a couple of hour ago for a bathroom break, couldn't find her," Matt says, glancing at Jody, who nods worried agreement. "She checked out with Evelyn, but no one's seen her since. We just got back from Admin, and we're not sure what to do. Normally, it's Alicia, not a problem, but here...."

Dean thinks if anyone would know, it's her team. "You think this is about Micah?"

Beside him, Cas stills, and son of a bitch, he forgot about that. "Micah's here?"

"Yeah, I--sorry, meant to tell you about that last night." Dean tries to decide if Cas's reaction is a good indicator or not of presence at cabin death night match (winner: Cas and Vera). "Carol, and--Barney and the other guy, can't remember his name." Christ, he's getting worse at being himself, not better. Because fever, he reminds himself firmly. 

"Did you check what she took with her?" Cas asks, and Matt and Jody nod.

"All she brought," Matt says. "Thought maybe she wanted to clean them--you know she's running low on that oil she likes, thought maybe she went to Lanak to see if they had any and trade. No go there, either. We thought maybe the training field, but wanted to check in first--"

"I'll go," Cas says, and Dean carefully doesn't react to that. "If anyone asks, she's on assignment for me."

Matt and Jody nod, looking relieved. "Go have breakfast," Dean tells them. "When do you go on duty?"

"Checkpoint Four at noon," Matt says, standing up. "Naresh wanted her here this morning to help with the rest of the questioning."

"Tell Evelyn you're all unavailable for duty today," Cas says, and both make faces. 

"Actually, go to Admin and tell Alison you're assigned to help her out," Dean says. "She's got a bad habit of wandering around Ichabod alone, makes me nervous."

Matt's mouth twitches. "She gonna go for that?"

"Be subtle," Dean advises. "Keep her in line of sight, not kidding: she's like a goddamn rat, any cover will do, and everyone--and I do mean everyone--will want to talk, so keep a clear line for her to the nearest door."

"You all had basic escort training for civilians," Cas tells them. "Consider this bringing it into practice." 

Matt looks at them doubtfully (they've met her). "Even the picking her up and carrying her out of danger part?"

"I'm sure that won't be necessary," Cas says, not truthfully at all (this is Alison, come on).

"She's supposed to be inspecting the buildings this morning," Dean tells them soothingly (again, they've met her). "Check in around noon in case anything comes up. Dismissed."

As soon as they're gone, Dean turns to look at Cas. "Sorry, I forgot."

"I’m strangely less surprised than I should be," Cas admits, and Dean takes him in, slumped and loose-limbed, hair a mess, and fights back the now-automatic reach for him. Three days, he thinks depressingly, and he's already a junkie looking for his next Cas-shaped fix.

Seemingly oblivious (he's not), Cas slides out of bed, going to their bags. "This shouldn't take long. Is there any chance of breakfast when I get back?"

Dean brightens (see: junkie. Christ, is this sad shit or what?). "You got it."

* * *

As soon as Cas is gone, Dean considers getting dressed (not feeling it), but takes the time to grab a gun and a holster, strapping them on before he picks up the tray from last night. Going to the bedroom door, he elbows it open and goes out and into a really goddamn white room. Again

Dean sets down the tray with a clatter. "This goddamn building." 

With a sigh, he surveys what feels like miles of mosaic floor, walls as distant as another country, the massive pillars holding up a ceiling with the depth and darkness of space scattered with countless points of light. Looking from ceiling to the floor again, he studies the complex mosaic; there's a pattern, he thinks, but there's no way to get perspective, unless he can somehow get up on one of those loggias decorating the right wall at half a dozen different heights from only feet from the floor to somewhere around the closest star, all glaring white stone and intricately carved balustrades. Frowning, he tries to remember if they were there before; last time, he was kind of distracted by the never-ending room, so who the hell knows.

Walking toward the closest wall on the left, he watches the pictures form: Demeter in dark grey gown and tunic, wheat-blonde hair threaded with streaks of grey, in the home of the gods on Mount Olympus before the twelve thrones, shoulders slumped as Zeus turns away from her appeal, the other gods ignoring her altogether; Clytemnestra in mourning black, standing before her husband's throne, face twisted in grief and hatred and anger as Agamemnon looks over her head in stoic refusal with his court unseeing, uncaring of her pain; Hecuba in exile from fallen Troy, kneeling in an echoingly empty temple, prayers unheard, offering unaccepted, the acolytes pretending she's not even there; Medea in Hera's temple, blonde hair in disarray, demanding that she fulfill the promise of Jason's devotion and dismissed without interest, her letters to her friends and family unopened and unanswered; and the last; Cornelia in a stark white _tabilium_ , plain plastered walls pocketed with pigeonholes for books, seated at a simple citrus wood desk with Publius lounging on the other side.

The stark, unrelieved black of her dress and _palla_ are of a different, more elaborate style, more suitable for a Roman noblewoman in urban Rome, and the white ribbons thicker as they wind through her intricately bound hair, but he can't see any other difference. Painfully erect in the plain Attic chair, expression impassive, she sets down the scroll she was reading to look at Publius.

"Sempronia does well?" Publius asks, wearing the white tunic with the thin purple border of a knight and the whitened toga of citizenship, grey hair barbered short, every inch a member of Rome's First Class.

"She enjoys country life," she answers, then gestures toward the desk, where another scroll lies, loosely furled. "Claudia says my granddaughter grows plumper by the day; my cooks spoil them dreadfully."

Publius nods. "And Licinia?"

Cornelia's expression doesn't change, but the faint tightness around her eyes increases. "She mourns, Publius, as a wife should for a beloved husband."

"Between us," Publius says softly, "discard pretense. How does she?"

"The Senate forbade us to mourn his death," she answers brittlely. "What can be expected when she's denied the most basic entitlements of widowhood, to wearing mourning, to grieve the year we're given for our loss? Small, petty men act thus."

"Frightened men."

"You defend them?"

Publius raises an eyebrow. "I was Gaius Sempronius's, as I was Tiberius Sempronius's, and your husband's before that. You, of all people, ask me that question?"

Cornelia frowns faintly before inclining her head. "I ask forgiveness. My temper grows short and will only grow more so."

Reaching across the desk, Publius catches the edge of a scroll, ink barely sanded, turning it to skim the neat columns, then looks at her. "They won't see you?"

"My friends are unavailable," she answers, voice heavy with irony. "Claudia's family is out of Rome. Licinia's father is indisposed. The--"

"Crassus needs a knife between the ribs," Publius interrupts casually, eyes on Cornelia. "I withdraw my objections to Licinia's presence in your household; having met the gentleman in question, any fate is preferable to returning to her _paterfamilias_."

"I'd sooner lie with a black dog than permit her to step foot in that household." Publius's mouth twitches at the dry response. "She's passed her twenty-third year, and with her husband's death, she is _in sur uris_ , in no hand but her own; that much, she is spared."

"He hasn't attempted to claim her?"

"No," she answers coolly. "He fears the stain of the Gracchi touching him further. Crassus was ever one to prize his skin above his ethics, such as they are."

"You do him a disservice," Publius protests gently. "His ethics are 'what makes him money', and money he prizes above all things."

The tightness eases. "I stand corrected." She looks at the letter for a long moment. "Sempronia finds it--difficult to care for her."

"She grows worse, then."

"She neither eats nor sleeps," Cornelia says tonelessly. "She refuses to dress or care for herself, and no matter how many watchers Sempronia places upon her, she escapes to wander the grounds looking for the Tiber so she can search for Gaius's body."

Publius closes his eyes.

"The physician ordered her force-fed and plied with syrup of poppies," she continues, eyes distant. "Claudia can offer her no surcease, nor can her child. She asks…" Cornelia's voice breaks briefly before steadying herself. "She says at her death that she wants no coin for Charon's barge, so she may join Gaius among the lost shades wandering the shores. Claudia--she will not say it, but that has long been her wish as well, so she may be with Tiberius."

"I'm sorry," Publius says softly. "The burdens you bear are greater than anything that should be asked of you."

"They are my daughters," Cornelia answers, meeting his eyes. "They are not a burden."

He nods, glancing at the small pile of scrolls on the edge of the desk, sealed with wax bearing the mark of the _gens Cornelia_ , their recipients among the most powerful families in Rome. "You have work for me?"

She glances at them and shakes her head. "Not today." 

Publius hesitates, then removes a small scroll from the sinus of his toga, encased in solid steel. Meeting Cornelia's eyes, he leans forward to set it on the desk between them, half-lidded eyes watchful as she picks it up, manicured nails clicking on the metal surface. 

"Should my services be required," he tells her. "You might find that useful."

Cornelia stares at it, rolling it against her palm, but at the knock at the door, she closes her hand around it, dropping it into a drawer of the desk. "Come."

Two women enter, making an obedience: one older than Cornelia in immaculate grey, hair entirely white, but as erect as a much younger woman, and an adolescent girl, tall and painfully thin with gangly limbs, black hair shorn well above her shoulders, wearing a too-short dress that bares her bony ankles, feet stuffed into slightly too-small sandals. She also looks terrified, looking frantically around the room despite her bent head.

" _Domina_ ," the older woman says, and Dean sees her faint, nearly indiscernible limp; so, for that matter, does Cornelia, eyes narrowing. "I--"

"Did I not instruct you to keep to your bed until the physician arrived?" The woman scowls. "Cardixa, surely at this late date I do not need to tell you the fate of those who disobey?"

"I forget, _domina_ ," Cardixa answers, widening her eyes in simulated innocence, "did you not free me on your beloved husband's death? At my age, the mind wanders."

The girl looks more frightened, but Cornelia barely keeps her severe expression, mouth twitching, and Publius grins outright.

"As I was saying," Cardixa continues after a significant pause, "as I must take to my bed by my mistress's order, this is one of the new girls to act in my place. Her skills include--"

"Care of the elderly and infirm?" Cornelia smiles at the girl, who shrinks under the level gaze. "Come, child, let me see you."

Giving Cardixa a frightened look (and Publius one of utter terror), the girl slowly crosses to the desk, head bowed before she lifts it tentatively, revealing wide, almond-shaped eyes so dark they look black. " _Domina_ ," the girl whispers in heavily accented Latin. 

"Don't look so," Cornelia says solemnly in Attic Greek, and the girl's eyes widen. "This is Rome, child. Here, a man may be sold into slavery, be freed by his master after twenty years' service and receive the citizenship, marry, father a daughter of unusual beauty, and then give her in marriage to his former master, an eighty year old senator who was praetor, consul, and censor in his time, and incontinent on both ends, his mouth by far the greater offender. I assure you, nothing so terrible will happen to you in my household."

"Lia!" Cardixa gasps as Publius, red-faced, fights not to laugh, and the girl looks around her, caught between terror and wondering if they've all gone crazy. "That marriage was an elevation far above Salonia's merits! And she the daughter of his own freedman, no less!"

"Godhood would not be compensation enough for marriage to Marcus Porcius Cato," Cornelia answers with a theatrical shiver, but there's a coolness in her eyes that tells Dean that Cato was not a buddy of hers. "At least he had the decency to die when their son was five and leave her and his children by her well provided for and assured her son would be admitted the Senate in his time. I liked Salonia very well," she adds reflectively, and Cardixa's expression turns to horror. "Intelligent, highly educated, and extremely cultured, with far sweeter a nature than Cato could possibly deserve: an ideal Roman wife and mother. I cannot fault Cato on the quality of his wife or the education of his dependents, both servile and free, just his treatment of them." Turning back to the girl, she says. "What part of the coast are you from? From your accent, I assume western Greece. Fishing village?"

"Piracy, you mean," Publius murmurs in Latin and receives a quelling glance from Cornelia.

"Yes, _domina_ ," the girl whispers, her Greek is slower, vowels drawled unlike Cornelia's sharper accent.

"Your name?"

The girl hesitates, bracing herself. "Whatever you wish, _domina_."

"That your mother gave you at your birth," Cornelia clarifies, adopting the girl's dialect effortlessly. "And your age, if you know it."

"Sappho, _domina_ ," the girl answers, in a burst of confidence. "I have twelve summers since I was enslaved, and my age was set at four."

"An excellent name. Sappho was Greece's greatest poet. I studied her work in my girlhood and read her often to relax. I have copies of her work with me if you wish to acquaint yourself with her." Cornelia nods at Cardixa. "Cardixa, go to bed and wait for the physician to see to your ankle. I can complete the interview without your supervision, I promise."

Cardixa opens her mouth to argue when Publius, chuckling quietly, gets to his feet. "I'll see her to her cubicle on my way out," he says. "And return for the evening meal, should I be invited."

"You need a wife," Cardixa states, taking his arm reluctantly. "Or at least a decent cook."

"I agree," Cornelia says in amusement, and Publius snorts. "However, it is to my benefit he has neither, for otherwise I would not enjoy his company so often; ignore her, Publius, your bachelorhood is to be admired and I look forward to your presence tonight. How does Titus Annius, by the by?"

"Plebian aedile this year," Publius says with a slow smile. "He's begun his career very late, but he does so with vigor. He canvasses for funds for his projects constantly, so I see him little."

"For shame," Cornelia says with a smirk. "Such a close friend and you are miserly with your wealth?"

"He wishes his work not to be a drain on the purse of his friends," Publius says in mock-resignation. 

"How un-Roman of him: is that not what friends are for? Now that I think on the subject, I've felt a great deal of interest in public works recently. If he'd be pleased to entertain an old woman," Publius and Cardixa snort in unison, "I would very much enjoy his company and hear his ideas at dinner tonight."

"I can speak for us both and assure his presence," Publius says, smile widening.

"I look forward to it. Tell my household I'm not to be disturbed, please."

Bowing, Publius leads Cardixa to the door as she varies between giving the girl warning glances and Cornelia annoyed ones. After the door shuts, Cornelia gestures to the empty chair on the other side of the desk, which Sappho, looking surprised, tentatively takes.

"Cardixa has been with me since my childhood, when my father felt I required someone who could be companion as well as maid; her bark is in excess of her bite, which she reserves for me, of course," Cornelia says, neatly clearing the area before her before resting her folded arms on the desk. "She is of the Germanic tribes--the Marsi, if I remember correctly--and was captured when my father intervened when her tribe attacked one allied with Rome. He kept his entitlement as general instead of selling them in Rome, and she was educated with me and my elder sister. She was freed with all those who came with me to my marriage, as is traditional among the great families of Rome, at my husband's death, as were my father's slaves on _his_ death. She continues with me now at a truly ridiculous salary, but what can one do? One must pay fair wage for a Roman citizen of her education and skill, and I certainly could not hope to find better." 

"Yes, _domina_ ," the girl says, straightening in her chair, and Dean wonders suddenly what that has to be like--not just to be a slave, but to live as one, future always uncertain, changing on the whim of a master (or mistress), fate not and never their own.

He finds out.

"Now that _that_ is settled," Cornelia says with a friendly smile. "Tell me of your history and leave nothing out. You need not fear for my refined ears; the daughter of Africanus was not sheltered and pretended ignorance of reality is to be despised."

Slowly, but with growing confidence, Sappho tells of her village (a haven for pirates, Publius was dead-on) where she was among the women and children sold into slavery after their menfolk were flogged and decapitated for piracy. She was sold twice; once as a page and errand girl for a Grania of Puteoli, ("Merchant family," Cornelia says, nodding. "Very rich mushrooms, but a Granius ship does not sink. It wouldn't dare."), newly-wed wife of a young, wealthy merchant newly acquired of the citizenship, very ambitious, and a total dick (Dean's opinion: Cornelia looks neutral but not like he's not used to people (Cas) who look like that and what it means). 

Sappho gained the husband's attention when she reached puberty and regularly was required to serve her increasingly-jealous mistress during the day and her master at night in his bed, a duty spoken of so flatly it was both obviously expected of her lot in life and a horror beyond that, which really makes him wonder about that guy and where he could find him. Eventually, Grania's jealousy won, and Sappho was sold again as a maidservant to another wealthy family of Latin squires, where her duties were to entertain and care for the elderly--and very beloved--wife, and her expression clears. 

Here she speaks of Maria's good nature and kindness, her master's warmth and gentleness, for their children were grown and grandchildren nearly so, and she was treated as both valued servant and daughter. She was instructed in how to play several instruments and to sing for her mistress's entertainment and distract her when she was in pain, and how to weave fabric and sew, as both were far beyond her mistress's abilities. She cared for her body, assisted her in her daily baths, assisted her to dress and redress should her garments become soiled, supervised the laundering of her clothing, and saw that her meals were prepared correctly to tempt her growingly indifferent appetite. 

("I was right," Cornelia says in satisfaction, which makes Sappho look briefly frightened before she relaxes and smiles back tentatively. "Your credentials for the care of the elderly and infirm are excellent indeed." Dean just wishes he could consult her about getting Cas to eat; if she can get an ailing ninety-something woman to finish a meal, Cas will be three times a day in a week, no problem.) 

The death of Maria plunged the household into mourning, and the elderly _paterfamilias_ , a Marcus Tullius, sold all his household slaves in town to retire to his country estate. The business that purchased her--one that specialized in the sale of skilled domestic slaves--was small but not stupid; her master's glowing recommendation of her care of his wife and list of her skills sent her to Rome's market, one of the largest in the world. There, her price would be set far higher, for her age and skills would assure attention from Rome's richest families, all of whom had at least one--and probably several--testy elderly members in need of a young, strong slave to entertain and care for them (and unspoken: stop driving everyone else crazy, but Cornelia's very attentive expression and lurking smirk tells him yeah, that's pretty much it).

"Are you literate?" Cornelia asks when Sappho is finished, and looking shocked, Sappho shakes her head. "We'll attend to that first, then. Your Latin is good enough for the country, but in Rome, it will mark you as a bumpkin and we can't have that, can we?" Sappho shakes her head. "We'll need to improve your Greek as well, but both can be assisted with diligent practice and close attention to listening to those around you." Sappho nods again, looking like she wants to say something, and Cornelia tilts her head. "Child, I cannot read your mind; speak and be easy."

"Literate?"

"If your first household had been wise, they would have seen to it themselves and assured themselves a high profit when they sold you," Cornelia says coolly. "Poor Maria of course hadn't the strength to attend to it, though I commend her for teaching you such domestic skills as would prove useful to your future. All who own slaves should so know their most basic duties to their dependents." 

Cornelia straightens, and Dean stills, caught by those vivid eyes as something inside her lights up; he couldn't look away if he tried. "My father was Publius Cornelius Scipio Africanus, who was one of Rome's greatest generals and earned the _cognomen_ Africanus for his work. He alone defeated the great general Hannibal in battle, ended the war, and brought Carthage to its knees in Rome's name. However, Carthage was not razed, nor its people enslaved, nor Hannibal executed; my father accepted Hannibal's surrender and set Hannibal over Carthage in honor to rule it in Rome's name and its people remained free. Do you know why?" 

Dean finds himself shaking his head along Sappho. 

"He made a great and bitter enemy into a loyal friend of Rome, set him in honor over a hostile, defeated city to make it great again in Rome's image, offered Roman citizenship to its greatest citizens, and thus spread our influence through Africa both within our province and beyond, all for Rome's greater glory. Now, the African province is as Roman as any born to Rome and its people ours. All is done for Rome, child; from birth to death, we belong to her, and all we are and do is in her service and for her greater glory. Now you are part of it; Cornelii slaves are properly cared for, properly educated, properly paid for their work, properly freed after their service is complete, and given the Roman citizenship; they are as Roman as those born to it. In them, and in their Roman children and grandchildren, our influence spreads, and Rome made greater still. We model for all the world the greatness of Rome in all we do, and what we do is always for her greater glory."

"Yes, _domina_ ," Sappho answers breathlessly, straightening in her chair. Dean can't blame her; he feels vaguely inspired himself, like maybe he should be...spreading Rome's greatness? Somehow? "I will do my best."

"I don't doubt it. Did Cardixa explain your duties?" Sappho nods eagerly. "I was afraid of that; we'll discuss them later. For now…." Cornelia pushes her chair back, eyeing the pile of unsent letters, then shakes her head. "Attire yourself for a walk…." She tilts her head again, taking in Sappho's clothing and looks pained. "We are of a height or close enough. Go to my sleep cubicle and open the trunk decorated with brass tacks at the foot of the bed; there, you should be able to find something that fits you better. Also, see if any footwear within suitable for walking is a better fit. Also find two cloaks, plain, if possible; I don't wish for attention today. I'll speak to the steward later today and have a seamstress arrive tomorrow in the third hour to see to appropriate clothing for you while we're in Rome. Go."

"Yes, _domina_ ," Sappho says, getting to her feet. "You do not wish for a litter?"

"I am not so decrepit as that," Cornelia says wryly. "Yet, anyway. Also, if possible, avoid attention."

Sappho hesitates. "Of--who, _domina_?"

"Everyone," Cornelia answers. "In case Publius should inquire of my activities today, this shall be our secret."

Sappho grins, perfectly at ease now. "Yes, _domina_. Would, perhaps, you like the steward first to be distracted from his stationary position near the door for a few minutes?"

"I would," Cornelia says with a slow smile, eyes warm. "I'll await you outside."

"I never had that," a female voice says, and Dean glances at the woman beside him. This time, she's in saffron, brief folds of sleeves revealing delicate, olive skinned arms, earrings, necklace, and bracelets of intricately worked gold set with carnelians, light brown hair in elaborate coils. She tilts her head, staring Cornelia as she puts away her unsent letters as well as those from her daughter and daughter in law and starts toward the door. "Not like she did, I mean. Patrician Cornelia, daughter of Africanus, one of the oldest and richest families in Rome, mother a patrician Aemilia Paulla--and no one, Head Count to the oldest patrician families, didn't feel she knew them by name. She probably did," she admits sourly. "Her father and both her sons were the same."

"Not a snob?"

"When you're a Cornelia and can trace your family back to the one of the original tribes of Rome and descent from at least one god," she answers wryly, "pretty much everything is beneath you, including snobbery. You heard her?" 

Dean nods, still vibrating a little with the intensity of those few words: _for her greater glory_. Like he should find a sword and go conquer something in Rome's name: what the hell?

"Her sons were like that; put them on the rostra and they could light up a crowd or bring it to heel with just their voices. One voice can be more dangerous than any army in the world, Dean; use yours right, and you're an army all by yourself. You should think about it." 

Dean jerks his gaze from the picture of the _tabilium_. "What? Me?"

"I said," she answers clearly, " _think about it_." 

Starting toward another picture, she pauses in interest, and joining her, Dean sees a neat cobbled street winding through hills in an obviously upper-class neighborhood, large, well-spaced mansions surrounding a burned out rectangle where he assumes a house once stood. 

Cornelia and Sappho in dark cloaks both stand across the street looking at it as the occasional figure passes them unseeing, uninterested in an elderly woman and her adolescent companion.

" _Domina_?" Sappho asks after a long moment, eyes darting from Cornelia's set face, color drained away leaving it a sickly yellow, to the arm tight across her stomach; her grief is months old and still just as fresh as the day she was told her last living son was dead. Bracing herself, Sappho touches Cornelia's shoulder. "Are you unwell? Should I call for a litter?"

"No!" The word is flat, but speaking seems to help; drawing a deep breath, Cornelia smiles reassuringly at Sappho. "No. I needed to see it myself. Indulge a foolish old woman in her maudlin impulses for a few moments longer."

Sappho nods uncertainly, eyes darting toward the burned ground, then back to Cornelia, expression intent. "Your--son's, _domina_?" Cornelia nods shortly. "Gaius Sempronius Gracchus was a very great man."

"He was," Cornelia says quietly, face impassive again, pain locked away, unwilling to allow it public display. After a moment, she shakes herself, starting to turn back the way they came, then abruptly choosing another direction entirely, her brisk step making Sappho jog to catch up. "Come along, Sappho, don't dawdle."

"Yes, _domina_ ," Sappho answers breathlessly, and Dean reflects age whatever, Cornelia can _move_. "May I--ask where--we are going?"

"The _Forum Romanum_ ," Cornelia answers, and beside him, Dean feels his companion still. "I would see the last place my son was alive in Rome."

"That," Dean's companion says blankly, "I never heard about."

"What?" Dean asks as she looks around at the other pictures almost frantically. "What's the big deal?"

"The _Forum_?" she answers incredulously. "Women of the First Class don't walk the Forum, especially her, they--just, they didn't do that, ever. Where is…." She looks around then up at the loggia and points at one of the lower ones, maybe twelve feet up. "We can watch from up there."

"Watch what?"

"I don't know," she answers distractedly, starting toward an arched doorway on the opposite wall, the stone around it worked in symbols he doesn't recognize, a set of winding marble stairs within. "Don't you want to find out?"

Hell yes. "Lead the way."

* * *

The training field, _sans_ cars, is exactly as he remembers it; it's strangely soothing. Following the fence, Castiel reaches the temporary storage building that was added during his first visit as a makeshift _salle_ for more specialized, intensive practice (and rainy days, at least until the YMCA is completed). Opening the side door, he eases inside and shuts it silently behind him, watching Alicia retrieve her knives from the padded practice wall and take them to their case and retrieve two others: four inch and eight inch hardened steel, hilts wrapped in hardened leather shaped to her hand.

Despite the cold outside, the room is well-insulated, and Alicia's stripped down to a sweat-stained tank top and faded pink sweatpants, each leg decorated with _Tiger Pride!_ in flaking white-glitter print. Ankle sheathes over a pair of socks to protect her feet from the cold of the smooth concrete floor hold her boot knives, and she also wears a belt in which she sheathes the shorter blade. Even in practice, she works with the full weight of her weapons on her body whether they're in use or not.

Padding back to the center of the room, she adjusts the thin straps that criss-cross her arms from just above the wristbands that protect the vulnerable wrists to halfway up to her shoulder, metal flashing against her inner arms: her throwing knives, two on each side. A flex of her wrist in one way and they slide into her hand, tip resting between two fingers, ready to throw. She adapted the straps to hold them from broken holsters and belts at Chitaqua, cutting and sewing the pieces together herself. He can see the places on her arms raw from rubbing, the fit not perfect, and the leather itself is showing wear; they need to speak to a leatherworker very soon. 

Here, her scars are on display, proof of her education in the tools of her craft and her expertise in their use: long, thick ridges and finer pink lines decorate her forearms above the wristbands, some fading just above the elbow, others thin barely-there slices; a thick, heavy line reaches from mid-arm to over her shoulder and almost lost her the use of her left arm; the round neck of the tank top reveals three more, two almost faded. 

Those still unseen: one across her left breast in a failed strike for the heart, gouging and leaving a long depression in the flesh; one on her upper abdomen across the ribs, barely enough to notice; eight serious and a dozen minor on her back and thighs, and the deep, wide scar across her belly stretching hip to hip, scar tissue thick but pliable; she'd nearly been gutted alive. Darryl (relatively clean, for once), worked methodically for almost an entire day and night to repair the bladder and damaged uterine wall before sepsis could take hold or she bled out. She burned with fever for a week; he remembers that, and remembers she was in the field the minute she could walk, practicing a new movement to protect her belly from monsters with long claws. 

He remembers best, however, what she said, crouched in the dirt, one hand holding her bleeding abdomen closed, the other still gripping her blood-soaked knife, and staring at a very dead monster: "I won."

Taking a deep breath, she stretches up onto the balls of her feet, sliding inside herself for an endless moment before setting her heels and starting the opening movements of the child-dance, so old that was its only name, when wise parents gave their four year olds wooden practice blade and began to teach them the survival skills they'd need to reach their majority.

It's difficult to get wrong--excluding Joseph, Vera, and Andy, of course--but Alicia makes it look as if she'd been born to it, performing each move with the ease of a dancer, moving to the second dance in rotation, then the third, working her way through thirteen dances before the master dances and then returning to the first. Each revolution is faster--Alicia dances to an internal beat, double, triple, quadruple, three-four, four-four, eight-sixteenth, she switches between them--and at the fourth repetition at full speed, moves into the introductory master without a single misstep, and he watches, breathless, as she comes to life.

Five dances encompass the master series, each radically different; close combat with an opponent no more than inches away; one that enters and exits and feints; one where the heavily muscled legs flash out between each thrust and parry, punches high and low, requiring a switch from hand to hand of her one knife; one for an invisible opponent a foot shorter than she is; and one for one a foot taller; the sixth is her own, however, built in pieces from the other five and never the same twice, flashing between them like she's never known the meaning of standing still.

In a single turn, the second knife flashes out, and the child's dance again, thirteen dances to reach masters, five plus one to complete it, and then the final one he built with her those long ago days when it was near midnight and why not. She does it last, when strength and reflexes have been strained, body pushed to the edge of its limits; everything in it is everything she knows, a test of nothing but pure skill, bone-deep training and repetition until she could do it in her sleep. It's when she has nothing left to give, she told him once; when she can't breathe and can't think and only wants to lie down and has to stand back up and fight.

If the dead can observe the living (he's come to believe they do, more than the Host suspected), the hundred adepts of this craft watch her now, tracing every movement of her body, every thrust of the knives, every kick, the drop of the knife for a punch and the roll to get it back, invisible enemies on all sides and none can ever see her back. She's almost a blur now, and he feels the second her perception of time starts to change, when the laws of the universe bend around her will as she reaches the controlled frenzy of the final movements, flipping the knife over her wrist as he taught her long ago before the final thrust. She has no peer in this, her chosen weapon (except, perhaps, him), and she proved it on the thing that tried and failed to take her life.

She finishes in a crouch, head up, eyes distant, perfect stillness balanced on the ball of one foot; her invisible enemies are all very, very dead, and he and a hundred dead adepts exult in her success, for they, like him, never consider the possibility she might fail.

He never understood this; the most mediocre of his first class of students, and she's the only one he's ever taught who feels the blade like he does, and that much long after her training should have been complete. Watching her is like watching his Brethren in Heaven, the Host at war: the corporeal form makes no difference at all. In retrospect, it's no surprise at all the first time Alicia was in his bed was after she performed this dance for him, proving she had no peer. The only surprise is he didn't invite her himself; he's very glad she saw to that.

"How'd I do?" she asks, shifting to the floor cross-legged and looking up at him and tossing the knife gleefully, wiping the sweat carelessly from her face and checking the tightly braided hair. "Still got it, I think."

"You need something more difficult," he says, joining her and motioning for her to show him her left arm. She works both equally, of course, but her left had to be trained up and receives special attention. Running his fingers over the well-developed muscles of her forearm, then the muscular upper arm, he checks the scars she treated as he treated Dean's to keep them pliable, returning to the strong wrists, and obediently, she turns them, flexing so he can see she's kept up even the most tedious parts of her skill. "Excellent: you realize you can't ignore Amanda's requests for you to demonstrate for her students at the end of training forever?"

She sighs. "I already told her I would."

"Really?"

"She did the eyes," Alicia explains, shaking her head in bafflement. "Can kill you before you blink, but big blue eyes and it's like you're murdering all the puppies ever if you say no, am I right?"

"I live with Dean," he explains. "Inoculation to lesser forms of his version helps with everyone but him."

"I forgot about that," she agrees, struck. "Can make you believe pretty much anything when he looks like that, even stuff you know is a total lie. Never gave back my emerald green satin thong, either." He tilts his head as she grins brightly. "He can keep it and you're welcome."

"I have a very nice silver-inlaid titanium composite, twelve inches and double sided," he says. "Remind me to get it for you when we get home; it would fit admirably with your reach. Perhaps two of them."

Leaning back on one arm, she nods seriously. "I am a beam of sunlight, bringing joy in so many forms, and the universe rewards those who do such good; who saw that coming? You have any idea what Amanda wants me to do?"

"It will only be a demonstration to the intermediate level," he says, indicating she extend her other arm. "Five students show some natural affinity with the blade, and she noticed Rosario has a definite preference but isn't showing skill consummate with that. I'd like you to evaluate her personally. On a guess, it's her age that's interfering; she's one of the four oldest and probably assumes she won't improve beyond some arbitrary limit since the younger recruits are adapting faster."

"CD player," Alicia decides, looking thoughtful. "Or a computer would be better. I'll teach her to dance on beat and speed it up slowly when she performs. Never know what hit her."

That is a very good idea; Amanda was right about Alicia being a natural instructor in her particular field. "When we get back to Chitaqua, I'd like you to start working with Dean."

Alicia's eyebrows jump. "Gun person crossing over? Interesting."

"Gun person? Turn around," he adds. "I want to look at your back. You did have Vera check it recently?"

She groans, turning in place and pulling the tank top over her head with a sigh before reaching back and undoing the clasp of her bra, letting it slide down her arms. "She wasn't here, and there hasn't been time. Also, didn't know she was a nurse for a while, in case you forgot."

"I know, it was a rhetorical question. Straighten," he says, laying a palm against her spine between her shoulder blades over the thick scar and feeling the shift of muscle carefully for any unfortunate pull. This one was--of all of them--the most worrisome, that she came to him (surprisingly not high, but then, it was very early in the day) to check Darryl's stitches for any possibility of limiting her reach. All that could be done--much like with Dean--was work it carefully and regularly while it was still pliable and treat any splits in the skin immediately. Of course, neither of them objected to mixing business with pleasure, so very enjoyable as well. "Arms in all five positions, one by one; what is a gun person?"

"Type," she explains, stretching her hands high above her head, elbows very straight and hands automatically fisting, something he's seen her do enough to realize it's reflexive, subconscious. "Like cat people, dog people, and those between and those neither. It's like the Kinsey scale of weaponry, see what I mean?"

"I do," he agrees. "I was told I'm a three."

"You got it," she agrees, stretching her arms in front of her--elbows straight, hands fisted, where does she get that--curving her shoulders in at his touch before pulling them back in a liquid flex. "You get hardliners on either side of course: Dean is very gun person." She cocks her head, frowning as she stretches her arms to the side, then as far back as she can, tilting her head back to look at him. "Should have remembered that before I slept with him: good for one-offs, but long term never happens. I don't like guns."

He raises his eyebrows and nods, and her hands drop to her side as she turns around, following his gaze to her chest--fully healed, no damage to the muscle beneath--and then abdomen; she stretches, throwing the scarring into even more relief, and twists as he watches, showing its flexibility. 

"Good as new," she tells him, patting the mass of thick, heavy ridges affectionately, vividly dark against her skin. She always smiles when she sees them: proof of survival, a battle well-fought, and a victory claimed by her own skill. "Lots of stretching, good for so many things."

"We should all be so devoted," he agrees. "Turn around and I'll fasten the clasp."

"Thanks," she says sincerely, sliding her bra back on and turning around, then pulling the tank top back on as she faces him. "So Dean--how far have you gotten him? On a guess, he never picked it up before?"

"No, he never cared for it," Castiel says as she stretches out a leg and flattens herself over it, hand loosely clasping her foot. "If nothing else, I thought it would be a good way to exercise his right arm with something lighter than a gun and more interesting than a series of balls. However, he's progressed surprisingly well. You may have a sparring partner other than Amanda and myself, provided his reflexes improve consummate with his skill."

"There aren't any signs of those slowing down if his performance on the range last week is any indication," she says. "Surprised me: has he gotten both hotter and better? Not fair. Also, Mark. Other reason I agreed: Mark needs a reminder of appropriate knife etiquette, including remembering where they all are." Tilting her head, she considers something. "That makes sense, now that I think about it."

He raises an eyebrow for elaboration on the subject of the second statement.

"Dean and knives. That fits." She stretches over her other leg, turning her cheek against her knee to peer at him thoughtfully. "No problems with his reach from either side?"

"None," he answers, and turning her face, she touches her nose to her knee before straightening, bracing her hands on the floor before spreading her legs to their full extension, frowning before slowly turning her legs until her knees are facing the ceiling and flexing her feet from pointe. He can do that, but his expression isn't never that serene; Kamal is a hard taskmaster even in his absence. "Doesn't that hurt?"

"A little," she agrees, bracing a hand behind her and bouncing enthusiastically before turning to face her right leg and flattening herself over it. "It's fine; I just haven't worked out much, but Mira and I were talking, and thought we'd get a group together. Hard to motivate yourself without seeing other people suffering with you, am I right?"

"That's universal, yes."

"I knew it. We'll expect you there, then; seeing your suffering will be super motivating." Repeating with her left, she sighs, returning to cross-legged and leaning her chin one her hand. He frowns, tracing the leather straps on her arms; far too many buckles, but she did her best with the material available. "I was thinking elastic," she says, following his thoughts effortlessly as well as his gaze. "Ichabod has some, but I'm still thinking on how to protect the joins."

"There's a leatherworker in Ichabod from one of the Alliance or local towns." 

She makes a face. "I forgot to bring trade goods."

"Go see them--Claudia should know where they are--and decide what you want," he answers. "Then tell Amanda; apparently, she's good at that kind of thing." He shrugs at her doubtful expression. "These are the tools of your craft; Chitaqua is obligated to provide those to you."

She nods seriously. "I did not know that."

"I just decided," he answers, and she grins at him. "Also, see what looks appropriate for a gauntlet for Dean. You know what to look for probably better than I do."

"I love shopping," she says, looking down at the throwing knife that slid into her palm with a twist of her wrist and threading it between her fingers, razor edges somehow never brushing her skin. "You ever think about what Beanie's like?"

Castiel stills, feeling the phantom pain of a bullet two inches from his spine. "Not until now."

* * *

The _loggia_ , wide and deep, meant for a nobleman's home to accommodate dozens of visitors to admire the view, does give them a much better look at what's going on. Looking down, Dean sees the crowd filling the massive open space where Rome's men did their public business. Across from them, a man in a white toga and tunic with the broad purple stripe of a senator stands on the rostra outside the _Comitium_ that houses the _Curia Hostilia_ , the meeting place of Rome's senators, energetically holding forth to a small group of interested men. From here, he can't hear what he's saying, but--

"One of the this year's tribunes of the plebs," she tells him, looking scornful as the man raises an arm in awkward oratorical flourish; even Dean winces seeing that. "Not an inspiring lot to be sure, but he surpasses all in mediocrity." 

She leans her elbows on the stone balustrade, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Up in front of the rostra--those are Forum frequenters," she says, pointing at the group of toga-clad men paying close attention, nodding or shaking their head almost as if on command. "Professional listeners, usually lower end of the First Class and high end of the Second. Not wealthy enough to run for office, but they do love politics; then again, in Rome, everyone does. Near them, to the right, the boys wearing the _bulla_ of childhood and purple-bordered tunics, and the depressed man who looks like he wishes he'd chosen a different career? Future senators, still in school: they're here with their pedagogue to listen and learn. In this case, 'what not to do when one stands on the rostra'." 

"They aren't paying attention," Dean observes, watching as three scuffle just beyond the unseeing eyes of the pedagogue (who is gesturing frantically at a vendor carrying flasks of what on a guess isn't water). 

"They're boys," she answers in amusement. "They'd rather be on the Campus Martius learning the art of soldiering. Who wouldn't? The rest.…" She gestures toward the crowd. "What do you see?"

"A lot of people."

She rolls her eyes. "Look more closely."

Dean gives her a skeptical look before turning his attention to the Forum again. On first glance, the flagstoned Forum is a sea of white. White togas with tunics bare of stripe, male citizens, many with the thin purple stripe of a knight, and some with the wider one of a senator; the plain, coarse tunics of day laborers and serviceable ones of vendors of watered wine and bread rolls stuffed with sausage, eager freedman and harried male slaves running errands, the occasional glimpse of the iron and bronze armor and kilt of a soldier or bodyguard or even gladiators, hired for exhibition matches at someone's party or maybe funeral games.

Looking closer, he picks out more; by the strip of shops that make up the _Tabernae Novia_ to the right of the _Comitium_ , Italian businessmen in sober dark tunics negotiate with Roman small business owners and Greek merchants wearing _chlamys_ ; nearby, Jewish scribes in their traditional dress and long curls linger in discussion with an Alexandrian scholar of definite Macedonian ancestry and Athenian and Asian Greek philosophers; wealthy Byzantine bankers meet with Roman knight-plutocrats and Rhodian merchant-princes; Numidian and Carthaginian noblemen in brightly colored, embroidered shirts and wrap skirts mix with Bithynian and Pontic ambassadors in elaborate wig-beards and jeweled robes; even an Ethiopian prince is wandering among the crowd, tall and imposing in Tyrian purple surrounded by his entourage and bodyguard, surveying the busy Forum with probably the same expression Dean can feel on his own face at the sheer mass and variety of humanity standing elbow to elbow, dozens of languages competing for every ear that can hear them

Women, too, and now that he's looking, there's a lot: physicians and small business owners in their plain, serviceable work dresses in fawn and brown; musicians with instruments tucked under their arms dressed in brilliant blues and greens; busy flower and food and drink merchants with their carts; a Vestal Virgin in unrelieved white wearing the seven tiered wool crown of her calling accompanied by a middle age carpenter with her rucksack of tools, and the cluster of women in flame-colored togas near the portico of the temple dedicated to Venus Erycina, whose profession he can guess by the number of men crowded around them. 

"Merchants, professionals, business owners, students, noblemen, knights, bankers, freedman, slaves, foreign nationals in residence, princes, tourists, and prostitutes," she tells him. "Some doing business, some sightseeing, some just with nothing better to do but listen. Rome, in other words. You should see it during the _ludi Romani_ , the two week festival and games at the end of summer. Everyone--and I do mean _everyone_ \--came to Rome for those."

"Christ," he mutters; he's probably been in every major city in the US, but he's never seen anything like this. Not just the numbers: the sheer _variety_ going about their business.

"Center of the world," she says wryly. "And we were just getting started." Her eyes go back to the man on the rostra, throwing an arm skyward in a gesture calculated to inspire second-hand embarrassment to anyone watching; seriously, what the hell? 

"Can you hear what he's saying?"

"I don't need to," she answers. "Speaking against the Gracchi, Gaius Sempronius in specific."

Dean braces his elbows on the stone, wincing as the guy throws out both arms in what looks unsettlingly like an attempt to bear hug empty air; the pedagogue closes his eyes with a shudder and empties the flask in a single swallow. "If he's dead, why bother?"

"Rome is a Republic," she answers. "It answers to the People, which means every citizen. It's also an oligarchy, ruled by the upper First Class, the senatorial families."

"Aristocrats."

"It helped to belong to one of the great patrician or plebian families," she agrees. "But this is Rome, Dean: money, and a lot of it, and your income decided _everything_. Money could buy you anything, including aristocracy; run for the tribunate of the plebs to get in the Senate, buy the electorate all the way up the _cursus honorium_ \--and maybe do something, but not required--get the praetorship and a rich province to loot, and buy the consulship. Congratulations: you're an aristocrat, your family is ennobled for all of time, and you get to sit in an ivory curule chair wherever you go for the rest of your life." She looks at him. "Everyone did it; Rome admires both money and knowing when to use it."

"Money."

"Better than magic. Best protection in the world, too, especially when you didn't have anything and anyone else." She turns her attention back to the crowd. "Every class in Rome but the upper First loved Tiberius and Gaius Sempronius Gracchus without exception. They elected Gaius to his second tribunate of the plebs when he wasn't even standing for election." She looks at him, smile lurking in her eyes. "Roman citizenship comes with a full franchise--for men, of course--but their votes rarely mattered in tribal assembly unless they belonged to the first seventeen tribes, and the Head Count's least of all; their voices went unheard. Gaius, like Tiberius, was a Roman nobleman, and his voice would always be heard; he made his voice theirs. And the People," she adds, looking at the street, "are vast."

Huh. "He was dangerous."

"He _is_ dangerous," she corrects him. "Even dead. Three _thousand_ citizens were denied their right to trial by their peers and executed by the consul Opimius's order with the blessing of the Senate; no one doesn't feel the chill of that, including other senators. The People are tinder, Dean; all that's needed is a spark, and they'll burn Rome in Gaius Sempronius's name." Her eyes harden. "And there are three thousand reasons no one will be that spark."

Over to the far right, Dean sees two black clad figures emerge from the _Sacra Via_ , Sappho looking intimidated and Cornelia…no expression at all. Nearby, half a dozen women in the flame-colored togas, eyes lined with _stibilium_ , cymbals chiming gently, plying their trade among a small crowd of interested looking men.

" _Domina_ ," Sappho says nervously, hovering close to Cornelia, half protecting, half in need of protection and eyeing the bustling crowd in alarm, "are you certain about this?"

"No," Cornelia answers with a faint, wry smile, eyes bleak with the grief she won't show anywhere else. "But why not? What else can they take from me?" She straightens her shoulders grimly. "I'm a Cornelia; if my father could face Hannibal in Africa without fear, I can walk the Forum of Rome."

"Hannibal was only one person, _domina_ ," Sappho mutters, eyes darting at sudden movements like she's watching for assassins or small children. "And your father had an army."

"True," Cornelia says, the bleakness fading as she looks at Sappho. "But I have you, and you can be my army. Are you ready?"

Sappho copies Cornelia, straightening her shoulders, murmuring "Army," under her breath as she matches Cornelia's pace.

As they enter the Forum just southeast of the _Tabernae Novia_ , one of the men turns away from the women in annoyance and nearly runs into Cornelia and Sappho. What he says Dean can't hear (though expression says it's not the kind of thing you say in public); Cornelia ignores it, but Sappho stiffens in sudden outrage.

"Watch your tongue!" Sappho snaps, blocking Cornelia with her body and glaring down at the man from a good two inches difference in their height. "You speak of Cornelia Africana, _fellator_! Her father conquered Africa in Rome's name!"

"Ouch," the woman beside Dean giggles, and he sees Cornelia is barely maintaining her impassivity, one corner of her mouth twitching against all she can do to control it. "Cocksucker. I like her."

"I do, too," he agrees, watching the man's eyes widen as he looks from Sappho to Cornelia, recognition flaring to life like a lit match.

" _Domina_ ," the man says in a hushed voice in the common Latin of the lower classes, making an obeisance and backing away and inevitably knocking into one of the men still negotiating with one of the prostitutes. "My apologies, _domina_. I didn't see you."

The other man breaks off in annoyance, looking first at the man, then follows his gaze and goes still. " _Domina_ ," he says reverently, drifting closer, and behind him, the prostitutes and the other men gather, fascinated. 

Cornelia inclines her head with a small smile, warmly personal, and the man swallows, dazed by the focus of those brilliant eyes. "Peace, _Quirites_. No offense meant or taken."

He nods, almost bowing, glaring at the first man before returning his gaze to Cornelia like a lodestone pulled north. "We mourns Gracchus still, _domina_. Rome is less when the Gracchi don't walk the Forum."

"I thank you," she answers, nodding at them, then looking at Sappho. "Have a pleasant day, gentleman. Come, child. Let's finish our walk."

"She's going to do it," Dean hears his companion murmur, voice nearly blank from shock. "I don't believe it."

Dean sees the men and women surge closer as Cornelia sets a slow, measured pace, hands reaching only to touch her cloak as it passes, while two men abruptly start into the crowd, others scattering toward the shops and down the streets leading away from the Forum. "What's going on?"

"I'm not sure," she says, voice hushed. "But I think a Gracchi will walk the Forum again this day."

* * *

Almost two years ago, Alicia came to his cabin and said, "A guy just passed the border with thirteen babies, and Erica won't do shit, says it's not our job to chase down every problem. I'm going to go get those kids and kill him; are you in?"

He was dead sober when he answered: "Yes."

"Me either," Alicia answers, sounding surprised. "Well, up until a couple of weeks ago." No need at all to guess what she's referring to. "Now--now it's all I can think about. She was pretty, right?" She looks at him earnestly, eyes bright with unshed tears. "You saw it? Prettiest baby: they usually look like Winston Churchill, but Beanie, she was something else, you know?"

He does remember: tightly curled black hair in six thick puffs, large brown eyes, dusky skin still darkening to what he suspected would be a rich brown, plump and warm and soft--he remember that, too, the solid weight of her in his arms. There'd still been pink ribbons surrounding the base of three puffs, and the tiny pink dress she wore was soiled but hand-sewn with obvious love and growing skill, tiny hand-embroidered pink and blue flowers decorating the neck and the hem. She wasn't one of those possibly sold by a desperate family to a human as amoral as any monster. Experience told him they'd died trying to protect her; the soiling on her dress wasn't dirt, but old blood mixed with new.

"Very pretty," he agrees, throat inexplicably tight. 

Alicia crooned to her, taking her in her arms with a tremulous smile before checking her over with an EMT's expertise. After, she bundled her into a carseat they found in the man's van that she strapped into the back seat of their jeep and covered her with a blanket, promising to return soon. She returned to him with both cases that contained her collection of knives, opening them as they both turned to look at the bloody, sobbing man in the remains of that circle that held the dead bodies of all the babies but the last, the one they saved. 

Alicia picked up the first knife. He said, "No."

"He deserves to die for this," she told him tonelessly, eyes flat as they fixed on the man and she started to smile. "Baby, it won't be fast, and you're gonna count the cuts for me as long as you got your tongue. How high can you count, anyway? Can't wait to find out."

"No," he said again, looking at the man and smiling as well. "I have a better idea."

"She went--I mean, I never asked...." Alicia's voice thickens as she trails to a stop.

"She went to an excellent family," he answers: the one and only time Vera reported to him directly with something that would never be written in any report. "There was no one better. They love her as their own." He pauses for a long moment. "I can find out more. And if you wish, arrange an introduction." He doubts the parents will object to that no matter what else may happen.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. "I don't know." Swallowing, she closes her eyes. "Did you ever tell Dean...."

"I told no one," he answers. "Including Vera. It's not and will never be mine to tell."

"All this time--I'm not sorry." She wipes her eyes, smiling at him. "You thought I might be, didn't you?"

The justice meted out by the Host is equal to the crime and the mind that conceived it. He didn't need to read the man's mind to gain the measure of its obscenity, and his crime spoke for itself. But humans--with rare exceptions--don't and can't understand it for what it is; they see the brutality or the mercy and not the balance. In all his existence, he's met five who could; one was Dean, and the last two in Chitaqua: Amanda, with a hunter's sensibilities and inborn understanding of that balance, and Alicia, who like Dean, also understood that vengeance and mercy are simply two of unnumbered facets of justice.

They dug three holes in an empty yard, near a fence looped with vines that Alicia said would bloom with roses come spring, and filled them from the splintered remains of the houses nearby, salting them and adding an accelerant stored in the jeep before wrapping each tiny body in sheets they found in one of the few intact houses. Alicia recited a prayer for the dead, voice clear and steady, before they placed four tiny bodies in each hole and burned the bodies to ash. It was almost dawn when they covered the blackened remains with salt and fresh earth and left them to their rest. They didn't think to bring a camera, but he could recite their appearance, clothing, and probable age from memory and he suspects Alicia could as well.

After, they turned their attention to the man bound in the back of their jeep. His only regret even then was he failed to finish his obscene work.

Within the altered circle, he dug a new hole six feet deep, and Alicia secured the man within it before climbing out again. Picking up the cup holding the remains of his blood, she waited for Castiel to speak the final words before pouring it over his face.

"Castiel and Alicia," she said, picking up the shovel as Castiel took out his gun, aiming for the man's heart. "You won't forget that, either. You're going to be screaming our names a thousand years after you forget you own."

She sat in the backseat on the drive back to Chitaqua, the baby she called Beanie (for reasons unclear but related to a nineties phenomenon that involved small dolls in some way) in her arms; he drove very carefully, for he was aware it was very dangerous for a child to be unsecured in a moving vehicle. She soothed the child when she began to fuss, feeding her the milk he stole from the substandard border station on the Nebraska-Kansas border with very poor security, told her she was pretty and her mother must have loved her very much and how she would grow up somewhere safe with people who would love her as her mother had. She didn't ask him where he was sending Beanie, only that it be safe and she would be loved as she deserved; he didn't tell her that with Beanie went a note that described what happened that night, and though they had no way to find out Beanie's name or that of her mother, the name she now bore was that of the woman who saved her life.

"No," he replies, meeting her eyes and seeing his own satisfaction written within: vengeance and mercy are often one in the same. "I didn't."

Alicia is an excellent name for such a pretty child who lost so much and still survived; he could think of none better, to honor the woman who saved her life and would have been her mother if she could.

* * *

Whispering precedes Cornelia, the crowd opening before her like magic, men nudging their neighbors as they gravitate closer, bowing, whispers of "Cornelia," and "Mother of the Gracchi", sometimes simply "Gracchi". Behind her, more appear simply to follow in her wake, coming from the side streets, pushing through merely to see her, men and even women from their shops and homes; by the time she's a third of the way across the Forum, the crowd has almost doubled, and those gathered by the rostra are being nudged, peering over the heads behind them curiously; even the poor pedagogue almost looks interested as his charges struggle to see what's going on. 

"Gracchi," spreads through the crowd like ripples from a rock dropped in a pond. The man on the rostra continues to speak, oblivious to the lack of attention as more and more turn to see Cornelia, tall and imposing and approachable all at once, continue her slow progress, offering a small smile, a nod, a word to those around her, accepting from the flower vendor a small bouquet with a murmured thanks that leaves the woman dazzled; the dark eyes meet those of everyone around her without fear. Hands reach out to touch her cloak, the trail of her skirt, bowing as she passes them.

"Was she always that tall?" Dean asks blankly.

His companion waves a baffled hand. "I was just thinking the same thing."

"Gracchi," becomes a low, almost subliminal chant, spreading through the people until even the guy at the rostra notices something's going on, scowling as he searches the crowd and mouth dropping open when he sees Cornelia, Sappho a dark-cloaked shadow at her side. 

"Gracchi," shudders through the massive crowd as more and more pour into the Forum, filling it to bursting, and Dean's pretty sure the guy's about to pass out, nearly losing his grip on the scroll before looking around anxiously, a nod sending a man running into the _Comitium_. For backup, on a guess.

"Gracchi,": louder now, the Forum filled to overflowing, and Dean sees more men join the first on the rostra, pristine togas and wearing the purple-bordered tunics of senators of Rome. 

"Gracchi,": loud enough to shake Rome, and in the thousands on thousands of voices Dean hears love, unhealed grief, rage, these people who loved the Gracchi brothers who loved them in their turn and denied the right to mourn, to grieve. "Gracchi. Gracchi. Gracchi. _Gracchi_."

Cornelia's expression flicker as the temple of Concord comes into view, built on the slaughter of her son, his followers, and three thousand men without trial. Raising her chin, she focuses on the cluster of senators gathering on the rostra, dark eyes lit from within with a hatred as deep and raw as her grief, and even from here, Dean can feel the hostility of the crowd growing by leaps and bounds.

" _Gracchi_ ," fills the Forum now, and not one of those men on the rostra don't get they're looking at a living, breathing spark. " _Gracchi. Gracchi. Gracchi. Gracchi._ "

"Tinder," Dean breathes. "Meet flint."

" _Pace, Quirites_ ," Cornelia says, voice pitched to slice effortlessly through the chanting, a stiletto aimed at the men on the rostra. Small men, Cornelia called them; frightened men, Publius told her; they're both, frozen by those dark eyes where Rome burns for a thousand years at her word. 

"People of Rome, I am widow of Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus and daughter of Publius Cornelius Scipio, called Africanus for his defeat of Hannibal and conquest of Carthage in Rome's name," she says clearly, capturing the crowd with the power of her voice, the shifts of her body that draws all attention to her as Sappho drifts back to give her space. Everything that guy on the rostra failed at she nails like she was born to it, and Dean sees the pedagogue shoving the kids up on something before climbing up himself to watch, flask abandoned.. "You see before you a mother without her sons; a woman alone, for mine is a house of women, without father, husband, brothers, or sons between us. Do you pity me, People of Rome, when you see me walk alone this day? Do you pity me, People of Rome, having borne twelve children, I am left with only one to comfort me in my old age? Do you pity me, People of Rome, that all I have of my sons is one granddaughter to dote upon at the end of my years? Do you pity me, People of Rome, when you see the rostra empty of my fine sons, where they spoke your will and in your name?

"Do not pity me, People of Rome; I do not pity myself, for I am honored above all other women. The sons I bore, like my father and theirs, did honor to Rome with their service to her, in her name, and for her greater glory. Do not pity me, People of Rome; I do not pity myself, for I am honored to have raised such sons to give to Rome. It was only just that they died as they lived, like their father and mine, in her service, in her name, and for her greater glory. Do not pity me, People of Rome; I cannot pity myself, I am to be _envied_ above all women, to be known as mother of such sons. As their mother, called Cornelia Africana, daughter of Africanus and mother of the Gracchi, I request the People of Rome join me not in mourning for the loss of my only sons, but in celebration of their lives and their work for the People, all for Rome: in her service, in her name, and always for her greater glory." Cornelia lifts her chin, and every senator up there probably thinks she's looking right at them, and raises her voice, each word spaced for emphasis. "Long. Live. _Rome_."

"Holy shit," Dean whispers.

The Forum is silent, still, held in the echo of those last words. She holds them there for an endless moment before the eyes of half the Senate, showing them her power without fear; her father took out Hannibal with an army, but she took Rome from those small, frightened men today with no other army than herself. 

Then she lets them go with a smile, like a breath of wind, leaving the Forum shocked, dazed, breathless, awed. His companion was right; a Gracchi did walk the Forum again this day, and like her sons before her, she fucking _owned it_.

Turning her attention back to those around her, Cornelia accepts an outstretched hand to help her over a rough patch of the cobblestones. Smiling into the man's eyes, she nods her thanks and continues on her path with Sappho in attendance, the man looking after her as if seeing an impossible vision.

Just short of the stunned Forum watchers and silent rostra, she gently veers her direction toward the _Vicus Jugarius_ , ignoring the temple to Concord like a leaking sewage pipe spilling foulness onto the street. Her attention is on the masses around her, nodding to every awed greeting, and Dean bets not one person in this crowd today isn't sure she looked directly at them, won't tell their grandchildren about when Cornelia Africana walked the Forum and owned the center of the world.

As Cornelia passes the temple of _Saturn Aerarium_ and State Treasury, Dean glimpses the people lining the street as far as the eye can see as the Forum's crowd continues at her heels. On a guess, public business isn't happening today.

" _Domina_ ," Sappho whispers, eyes huge as she almost hugs Cornelia's side, "I don't think we can keep this a secret from Publius." 

"I suspect not." Reaching for Sappho's arm, Cornelia never changes her pace or her smile, but Dean hears her add, voice soft, "I think my daughters and granddaughter would benefit from a change of air. Rome's is excellent this time of year."

The room fades back in, endless walls lined with pictures again, and Dean follows his companion down the stairs in thoughtful silence, emerging back on the colorful mosaic floor. 

"That happened," she says incredulously. "They said she might have spoken unwisely more than once," okay, that's one way to put it, "but....actually, Great-aunt Sempronia's companion said she wouldn't be surprised if I did the same thing. I wonder if she knew about it?"

He glances at her annoyed expression and fights back a laugh. "Ideal Roman wife and mother."

"Looks like some things breed true after all," she answers, a sudden smile lighting her face. "She was amazing, wasn't she?"

"Yeah," he agrees, remembering that moment where it felt like she looked right at him; she had him, too, and he wasn't even--technically--there (he thinks). He looks at his companion, who's frowning at the nearest pictures. "Still can't find it?"

"Not yet," she answers, frown deepening. "Getting closer though: that helped. What I wouldn't give for some omnipotence or even an accurate history book. Or a relatively accurate oracle." She looks at him curiously. "Do you still have those?"

Oracle, yeah, that's…. "Clairvoyants," he says in relief. "Yeah, we do. Well, one here, anyway. Not really--good at it, though."

She sighs: yeah, _exactly_ , welcome to his life. 

"You sure you don't need some help?" he asks; Cas is probably still with Alicia and it's not like breakfast is going anywhere. If they even have breakfast; they gotta be close to running out of food, and fuck if he'll take anything from those coming in or the kids at the daycare.

"Not yet," she says after considering for a few minutes. "Besides, you have work to do."

"Call me if you need me, okay?" She tilts her head, giving him that look from the last time, mouth curving in a faint smile. "Really."

"I know," she agrees, smile growing. "Thanks. Wait, one more thing." He nods, waiitng. "The future is unwritten now, and it must remain so, if this is to work. Knowing that--doesn't help."

Okay? "What's going to work?"

"Everything," she says vaguely. "There are rules, and I don't know all the reasons for them, but I've learned enough to know they should not be broken. That doesn't mean that they can't be bent, and should be if needed." Turning to face him, she makes a face, taking a deep breath. "Let's see how much I can."

He nods encouragingly: why not?

"You will hear someone say, 'Dean, put it down'," she says slowly, carefully, and looks relieved. "When you hear it, open your hand."

Right. "Okay, and--what?"

She meets his eyes. "Stand up." Then she grins, relaxing. "Don't forget your tray, by the way. Over there, by the door."

Looking around, Dean sees the tray by a heavy wooden door set in another arched doorway. "Liking the not-oracle thing, huh?"

"Gotta admit, beating the system is always a rush," she tells him, nodding enthusiastically. "I'll see you soon."

She turns back to the frescos, and Dean walks over to pick up the tray before setting his shoulder against the wooden door and walks into the sparsely-populated mess (in the building they're _not keeping_ ) and toward the kitchen, following the smell of coffee.

* * *

They don't bother locking up (the _salle_ has no lock, for one), Alicia bundled into her coat and boots and jeans, backpack thrown over her shoulder as they go to the jeep. 

"You walked the entire way?" he asks, opening the passenger door for her as Vera taught him to do for people carrying items when he isn't, whether they need it or not.

"I needed to think," she says with a shrug, and Castiel thinks about that on his way to the driver's side. Easing inside, he glances at her; it occurs to him in all their acquaintance, he never realized her expression--quicksilver in changes of mood--has never once been unguarded, never caught with face and tone not matching her perceived mood. He waits until they're on their way back before asking, "Where's Micah?"

"Sixth Street, Building Eight, Room 316," she answers, looking at him with clear blue eyes. "Idiots two are with him and six other single guys, bachelor area I guess. I bet he hates that; he always liked his space. Carol's still in the infirmary, first floor off the operating room where they can keep her under observation. No word on her leg yet; I checked her chart, and if she stays stable, Vera's going to need to do surgery today." Alicia shakes her, mouth tight. "Bit right through the femur, splintered it to hell and back. Even if Vera can save it...."

"Relevant, I'll give you that," he says. "And genuinely of interest to me, well done. Micah."

She sighs, head tipping back against the headrest as Ichabod proper comes into view. "It's been a while. I don't want to hang out or anything, but--gotta admit, I'm curious if he's still got that limp."

He files that away. "Dean took your team off the duty roster today. Before you argue, they're on duty watching Alison, and I'd like you to work with Naresh today to see if you can find out what is causing--whatever this is."

She settles back, nodding. "Actually, I have a theory, and that will help. Can you meet me in the infirmary after noon? We're releasing Haruhi and the others from the mess--God knows we need the space--and--okay, don't kill the messenger--she may not be clear on how pissed you are, so reassure her maybe?" He glares at her across the seats. "For her own good, I remind you. To save her life and everything."

That much is true. "Granted," he says grudgingly.

As they pull up in front of HQ, he opens the door for her (twice), entering the almost empty lobby where Rachel's on desk duty and Kyle is lurking very unsubtly (even for him) at the top of the stairs in what he probably thinks is out of view. Then he is out of view and very probably running for his room at considerable speed.

Alicia doesn't look up but her mouth quirks. "You know, he explained to me a week ago how fancy knife dances don't prep you for real fighting?"

Half-way to the stairs, Castiel comes to a dead stop, and turning around, Alicia grins at him, eyes dancing. "But...." He has no idea what goes there.

"There is always a type for whom sex is a transformative experience," she explains, nodding sincerely. "Of their partner, you know what I mean? Orgasm or two, go to sleep, wake up, and find out you are a delicate and kind of stupid flower. Didn't let him top after that, obviously. I was trying to be nice, but we all make mistakes, am I right?" She sighs, looking bewildered. "Also, squeamish. Didn't see that coming."

Castiel correctly interprets that as Kyle showing (after that, possibly justifiable) terror when Alicia brought up the subject of recreational knife use. "Is he bothering you?"

"No," she answers promptly. "I won't deny he really, really wants to, though, but no." Tilting her head toward the stairs, he nods and falls into step beside her. "He's not a bad guy, just...."

He gives her to half-way up the stairs before asking, "You were saying?"

"I'm working on it," she assures him as they reach the second floor, blissfully empty of people unable to bother Alicia no matter how hard they might try. "Hey, you think Dean would like working with Matt? So he won't feel inadequate or anything? Matt's getting better, but let's say it's gonna take some work."

Castiel thinks many things and says none of them. "You're teaching Matt?" he asks politely as they start down the hall that has both his and Dean's room as well as that of Alicia's team. "I had no idea he was interested."

"He's a neither/nor; good with a gun, not great with a knife but me, I think that's just lack of practice," she explains, smiling suddenly and pausing to lean against the wall. "We started a month ago. It's weird; before he was on my team, I barely knew him, but in the field, it's like he can read my mind, exactly where I want him to be, never missed a step after the first week. I sent him to the library last night for some encyclopedias, and he found what I needed and also one all about knife fighting--the name is _The Complete Book of Knife Fighting_."

What would Dean do, he thinks desperately, fighting down laughter. "You don't say."

She rolls her eyes. "If it were sex, trust me, he didn't need to get me books and play with knives to get my attention; he's hot and from what I understand, flexible and all around fun, you know what I mean?" She cocks her head. "Though yeah, those would both help. I asked a while back, and no go, so we played Monopoly and he won twice. Now we do weekly board game nights, every Thursday we're in Chitaqua. It's fun."

Castiel fails to remember a time anyone refused an offer from Alicia; in theory, it must have happened, but everyone at Chitaqua is sane (mostly). "That's unexpected."

"Yeah, surprised me, too," she agrees as they start down the hall again. "But what can you do? Answer: triple word score his ass, for Scrabble is totally my game."

"How's your chess game?" he asks curiously, and is remarkably unsurprised by her answer.

"Only Matt will play with me anymore," she says sadly. "Even when I handed over my bishops to help them out, I'd always win."

* * *

Dean is armed with coffee, breakfast, and a determined expression when he returns to the room to find Cas already in residence, reading at a glance through reports fast enough that it looks like he's just flipping through the pages. Good, he's caught up.

"Good morning," he says brightly, ignoring Cas's eyes narrow at the sight of food--a necessity for living, mortal beings everywhere and fuck Crowley backward for this, too, Cas was making great progress--before taking in the fact that the bed is almost kind of made and feeling a spurt of pride at Cas's valiant attempt at baseline human behavior. "Alicia okay?"

Cas hesitates before saying, "I'm not sure."

Setting the tray on the bed, Dean waits for Cas to give up and get a tortilla already, which he does, so score for determination. "She mention Micah?"

"No. I mean, yes, but only in regard to his location, his roommates, her lack of interest in hanging out with him, and if I'd seen him and if he still had a limp." Spreading it with butter, he folds it in half and takes a bite, frowning at nothing. "I forgot to ask Dolores where Alicia was assigned when she was in Ichabod after the attack."

Dean lowers his tortilla. "I'm thinking those are related, somehow."

"I’m not sure about that, either," Cas responds. "I'm trying to remember if I saw Micah when he left Chitaqua and if he indeed have a limp."

Dean turns that over in his mind and comes up with 'knives, Alicia carries many of them'. "How bad a breakup was this? Is that why he left the camp?"

"For the latter, that was the general assumption from what I understand. The former, however, is the other thing that I can't remember," he says, finishing the tortilla and taking a second, spreading it out on the tray before loading it with potato-onion-pepper thing, chorizo, and cheese (that Dean grated himself, thank you).

Dean finishes his first tortilla in thoughtful silence and copies Cas for his second. "Sean's team really doesn't like him." He takes a bite and swallows, watching Cas's face. "Did the team leaders?"

"He was on Erica's team with Alicia and Heath." Cas finishes the breakfast burrito, frowning as he automatically makes another. "Briefly, that is, about three weeks: Alicia was injured on a mission and he took her place while she was recovering. The other permanent member was Felix."

"When?"

"Three days after the event you very obviously are thinking of, Alicia returned to the team and Micah returned to--whatever he was doing. I know what you're asking, and no, I didn't see him."

His Cas-to-English (or Cas-tone-to-English) is getting goddamn amazing. "You think he might have been?" Which brings up another question. "What happened to the bullets in your wall?"

"We removed them," he answers, frowning as he takes half that thing in a single bite: next they're working on is not choking to death. "Everyone used their standard weapons. An expert could link them to individual guns, yes, but obviously that wasn't an option even if an expert was available."

"Thousand dollar question, Cas, no takebacks, from your gut: you think he was there?"

Cas finishes the taco and reaches for the coffee. "Micah was--and probably still is--a coward."

"Don't have to be brave to pick up a gun and join a mob," Dean answers flatly, rolling them each one last breakfast taco from the remains on the plate and nudging one toward Cas, who picks it up immediately. "Okay, let's do this a different way: was Heath?"

Cas takes a defiant bite and chews slowly before there's nothing left for his teeth to do. "Yes."

"Felix?"

"Yes," Cas says before finishing-- _holy shit two thirds of a breakfast taco_ \--in a single, challenging bite, like he's just asking for a visit from Heimlich Maneuver (which sure, Dean knows, but seriously?). "Anything else?"

"And Felix and Heath...."

"Dead well before Kansas City."

Sitting back, Dean finishes his breakfast in small bites (example, he's setting it) and tries to make sense of this. "So check me here: Erica is on Crossroads near Ichabod, and Micah, Carol and--whatever their names are--"

"Barney," Cas tells him with the sympathetic tone of someone relating a fatal and lingering disease is in your immediate future, "and Stephen."

"Idiots two," Dean decides. "And also, how much of an asshole did I look in front of Sean's team and Alicia not knowing their names?"

"That wouldn't be a deciding factor," Cas admits. "I knew them both, trained them both, and have a perfect memory, and it's an effort to remember more than 'shapes that followed Micah around'."

"Anyway, five former members of Chitaqua showing up, one as a demon, all within a day of each other, while we're here--and why the _hell_ did Crowley have her doing duty on earth?" This has been bothering him. "I mean, even if she was his, he wouldn't let her out of Hell this soon."

Cas takes a drink of coffee, eyes distant. "The carrot and the stick."

Okay, sure. "Anytime you're ready."

"Something he told me about his method," Cas responds. "He let me protect her from discipline--"

"What?" Dean asks, hissing as hot coffee splashes over his hand. Setting it down hastily, he glares at Cas. "You did _what_?"

"It's not important--"

"Cas, right at this moment, that is the single most important thing you've ever said," Dean interrupts, wiping his hand with a napkin. "Why--"

"I told you why."

And just like that, last night floods back, and Dean remembers actually, they have had breakfast now and it's probably--no guarantee here (if he's lucky)--time they talked.

"In any case," Cas continues, and Dean is not at all okay with the change of subject but hey, it's rude to interrupt or....something, "carrot and stick, he's giving her neither."

"She's not afraid of him?" Dean would love to see that because no other way would he believe it, and even then....

"She's afraid of him," Cas says slowly. "But not enough. And he doesn't seem to care."

* * *

When they're done, Dean stacks everything together on the table and quickly gets dressed, trying not to side-eye Cas on the bed, reading through reports. 

"If you have something you wish to say," Cas says, not looking up, "it would be much easier for you to do it. I can't--at the moment--read your mind, though I've noted that does change unexpectedly, so if you wish to wait--"

"Christ." Buttoning on the flannel over thermal and t-shirt, Dean circles around the bed and tries to think of what to say. Cas's sudden attention doesn't help, either. "I'm sorry. I was out of line last night. That had nothing to do with--anything. It was me."

Cas's expression doesn't change for a moment, then he pushes back the reports--good sign? Bad sign?--and sighs, leaning back against the pillows. "You're two different people," he says. "It's impossible to compare you in any meaningful way, and also ridiculous."

"I know." He does know; this isn't about Cas. "You--that was me that put you on the rack, not him."

"As you explained, several times, dreams don't mean anything. Also--"

"Cas, we both know that was me, come on!" Dean interrupts, dropping onto the foot of the bed. "And it wouldn't be better if it were him!" For so many very wrong reasons: what the hell is wrong with him?

"I apologize for my subconscious offending your sensibilities," Cas bites out, and Dean knew this was going to happen, it couldn't _not_. He can't explain this in any way that doesn't sound crazy, or--something. "If I ever have another dream, I'll be certain to take that into consideration."

"Again, not you," Dean says, fighting down the burst of anger that Cas doesn't deserve. "It's me. The entire thing, that was my fault."

"Dean, you don't control my dreams." Cas's set expression fades, incredulity creeping in. "You think _you_....control my one and only experience with dreaming?"

Okay when he says it like that.... "Yes." 

Cas blinks slowly, tilting his head. "You're serious."

"God." Getting to his feet, Dean starts to pace. "You are not getting this."

"Dean, if you--in some way--have transmitted your desire to have me on my knees to my subconscious, you needn't worry," Cas assures him, and Dean spins around. "I perform on request."

Dean fails at words. What the hell do you say to that?

"I can prostrate myself as well in one hundred and thirty-five different ways," he adds in the spirit of what Dean assumes is education is never wasted. "I've never objected to role playing, in case that need saying."

"You wanna play Master of the Pit and his pet angel?" He just said that. Out loud.

Cas rolls his eyes. "I'm never a pet. You gave me your name and that means I also shared your power as well as your authority and could act in your name. And did so, quite gruesomely." He looks terrifyingly struck. "As in Chitaqua, so it shall be in the Pit, I suppose."

Dean starts to answer, then does some find/replace: performance art torture equals map-making and art maps, giant torture device for angels equals new mess, terrified lieutenants everywhere, and there's a really good chance he may have built Cas his very own torture room in place of a library. "Holy shit," he says, dropping back onto the bed. "It was."

"I was never allowed to hold any high rank in the Host," Cas muses. "For various reasons that may actually be infinite--I'd need more time to search my memory--it was never permitted and I never felt any form of ambition, of course. It does say something that I had only to fall to Earth and wait two and a quarter years to reach the position of second in command of Chitaqua and less than two months more to become your consort as well, in fact rather than speculation, that is." Dean makes a strangled sound, though what, no idea, "Now I dream of being second in command of the Pit and consort of its Master contemplating--with what I suspect are very good odds of success--conquering Hell itself. Power corrupts indeed. By the next dream, perhaps I will have usurped you and have you kneeling before me on the throne of Hell."

Cas is looking right at him, so no way he could miss it; he'd be worried about that, but important brain function is suspended indefinitely and he's pretty sure all the blood in his body just relocated to more southern (dick-related) climates.

"Perhaps," Cas continues in a voice invented specifically for Dean's pornographic fantasies, past, present, and future, "I woke too early. Perhaps after exhibitionism performed before my Brother--which I have no objection to should the opportunity arise on earth--I would have fucked the Master of the Pit before all his realm over his very throne."

He's not fifteen fucking years old and is not-- _is not_ \--coming in his pants from listening to Cas relating...that, but his cock is disagreeing with him, and experience tells him who's gonna win this one.

Cas's mouth twitches as he settles back against the pillows in satisfaction and fuck Dean's life very much, even that's hot. "A pity we'll never know."

Breathing works, check. "Fuck you."

"It took your mind off the ridiculous notion you are--whatever that was," Cas points out, which is actually true; his mind is pretty much nowhere near there, whatever it was. "In retrospect after a good night's sleep--for which I thank you--it's easy to place this in perspective. With the exception of--"

"The beginning, yeah." Five acts and an intermission: seriously, if that was just the start, what the hell happened next? Why does he want to know?

"Not the stabbing you part," Cas says dismissively, and seriously, what the fuck is wrong with his cock? "It wasn't that upsetting." Something crosses Cas's face then, there and gone. "That frame, however...."

"What about it?" He sees Cas frown and remembers Cas isn't a fan of personal space and Dean's not sure he remembers what that is anymore; also, they're having sex. Crawling down the bed, he drops down beside Cas. "What, you said you imagined it when you were stoned."

"In Kansas City," he says slowly, eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance, "Lucifer asked me if I wanted to know why he spared my life. Then he told me--he told me the only question was how long it would be before I hated myself more than I hated him."

Dean nods, shifting closer so their shoulders touch. 

"I hate him," Cas says with a simplicity both understatement and devastatingly accurate because of it. "I can't imagine anything--even myself--that I could hate more. I thought that what he meant--however ridiculous--was that I'd join him out of sheer self-hatred. Then I thought--this being Lucifer and past master of obvious and terrible metaphor--that he meant becoming him." Cas turns to look at him. "He was wrong."

"Well, yeah--"

"I wouldn't hate myself for becoming him," Cas says, and Dean shuts his mouth. "If it meant that I could put him on that rack for all of Time, and he begins to make payment for the infinite number of his crimes, I wouldn't hate myself: every death, every life ruined or destroyed, every tear shed in grief or pain, every drop of blood, every damned soul, each paid back tenfold, and earth would be safe, never again fear him." He trails off, looking away. "I don't want to be him, but it feels almost selfish not to find a way to do it anyway. I wonder--I wonder if the reason I don't is more selfish still; that I don't want to do it alone."

Dean maps the entire morning from the moment Cas woke up to now, adding in Alicia (very distracting) and their entire conversation and comes to a depressing conclusion; even if you take all the precautions in the world not to leave Cas alone with his thoughts to overthink shit, he'll fit it in between other things, somehow. And here they are: calmly and rationally discussing how Cas's first ever dream could have been a not entirely out of the realm of possibility, much more pleasant option to becoming Lucifer _fantasy_. 

And who'd he pick for his partner in crime and kinky Pit shit (and lots and lots of recreational torture) out of all the world (living and dead)? Dean.

Christ: he's not just an asshole but a really _stupid_ one. 

(Also, Cas thinks he could conquer Hell. All he can think is that Lisa wasn't sure he knew how to do dishes after inviting him to move in. She was mostly wrong, but for the record, cast iron is a bitch to get clean, come on.)

"He's an angel, and so was I, and in this much, we're the same. That," Cas says into the silence, voice so quiet it's barely a breath, "is something I would do."

Dean makes an executive decision. "Grab your coat," he says, sliding off the bed an finding his boots on the first try. "We're getting out of here."

* * *

To avoid the incoming people--not to mention that even from Alison's, Dean can hear enough to tell him they're in the middle of gate-hanging, which seems to be going about as well as expected by the level of profanity--Dean gets to drive by sheer how-to and gumption (and stealing the keys from Cas). 

Driving out toward the east of town, Dean makes a sharp right on something that may have been a road (anything's possible), stopping short and putting the jeep in park before pocketing the keys. 

"Out," he says, and Cas frowns, looking startled, then climbing out and stopping short.

Suppressing the smile, Dean joins him on the other side of the jeep as above them, the sky sparks in all the colors of the rainbow. 

A few feet away from the wall, Cas comes to a halt, staring at it with the same expression Dean felt on his own face when he saw it. The blue eyes travel over it, and all over again, that shock, like he's seeing it for the first time all over again.

"How many could you have sent to Chitaqua the other night?" Dean asks.

"Ten thousand, perhaps eleven," he answers distractedly. "The lack of shelter may have been a problem, so I suppose I could have sent some buildings as well. Inorganic matter takes less power and far less than living beings."

"Definitely safe in Chitaqua's wards, right?"

Cas blinks, looking at him. "Yes."

"And instead--you picked not definitely saving anyone but maybe saving everyone or at least most of 'em. Why?"

"Is this a life lesson?" Cas asks suspiciously.

"Yeah, it is," he answers. "Look at the wall and check out the sky and tell me again you could sell anything--even yourself--to stop Lucifer for sure and fuck the rest."

"What else--"

"Cas, the world is over, it's just a matter of time," he answers, looking at the gleaming stretch of wall that fuck his life does in fact glitter and worse, he kind of likes it. "Best case scenario, the infected zone--here, all of the world--are gonna be killed to stop Croat; that's gonna happen. Second to worst case--you say I don't have to worry about the stone age and supermammoths, but that's not exactly reassuring on electricity, heat, the internet, disease, and running water for one and all."

"And worst?"

"Texas was just how it started, they would write in history books, but there'll be no one alive to write them." Dean shakes his head, eyes on the wall. "This is you, Cas, this is _us_ , this is what we do. We can't save everyone, but we're gonna damn well try, and we won't sacrifice anyone to do it. Everyone deserves a chance, and that's our job; to give it to them."

Cas gives him a sidelong glance. "Is that enough?"

"No," Dean admits. "But that's why we're recruiting. More people helps."

* * *

A message from Manuel is waiting for them at headquarters: to meet on the wall for reasons unclear but important.

"I need to see Vera first," Castiel tells Dean, which makes him frown. "I need to inquire about Carol's status and--I would like to tell her thank you for her help."

"Right," Dean says, groaning. "I'm dead. She was at the infirmary last night, and she's going to hold it against me I didn't send a message to tell her you woke up and were fine, I know it."

"I'm sure she's aware--"

"Won't matter," Dean interrupts grimly. "Meet me on the wall when you're done?"

"I will," he promises, watching Dean start toward the west--and the gate--before making his way to the infirmary, watchful for civilians. 

It's crowded--a problem--but Dolores on her way down the stairs sees him, tired face lighting in a smile. "Cas," she says, gesturing for him to follow her. "Feeling better?"

"I am," he answers politely; it's true, after all. "Is Vera available or is she working?"

"On break," Dolores says, looking around the busy ER. "We're about to start on Carol's leg in about an hour, and she needs the time."

"What's the prognosis?"

Dolores sighs as she leads him to a door on the far left. "It's still stable, no sign of infection, but her leg lost blood flow for a while, which is the biggest problem. Honestly, I'd have amputated already, but Vera thinks--hopes--she'll be able to keep it, at least. She read half the night, so she'd know. If it fails--well, we'll be watching, since we'll have to amputate fast to avoid gangrene." Opening the door, she says, "Left, first door on the right. I'm glad you came; she could really use a friend right now."

"Thank you," he answers, and follows her instructions exactly, knocking politely before carefully opening the door. "Vera?"

She's slumped on a chair, elbows resting on her knees and head hanging down tiredly. Looking up, she frowns, and he can see the faint traces of tears, hastily hidden. "Cas," she says with an attempt at a smile. "You look good and Dean is dead."

"He worried about that." Closing the door, he crosses the short distance between them and crouches before her. "Thank you for what you did."

"Anytime." Smiling more naturally, she straightens. "Everything okay?"

"I was about to ask you the same question." He catches her eyes when she tries to avoid him. "Dolores told me you would be working on Carol's leg today."

She nods tightly. "It's a risk, I know, but I gotta try. If I'm wrong--we should be able to amputate in time."

"How much?"

"Barely enough for a stump," Vera answers steadily. "It nicked the femoral artery and crushed the femur; they did their best, kept her alive, no fault to her friends there. They packed it in snow, that helped, but--I don't know. Best case scenario is she doesn't lose the leg and the paralysis is limited. She may walk again, no guarantees, but if this works, it's going to be all or nothing."

He nods, watching her face. "What else?"

Vera swallows, closing her eyes. "Sudha isn't progressing on time. Not a big deal--she's fine, baby's fine, checking regularly, it happens all the time--but...I don't know, something bothered me, so I did an ultrasound to double check. Dolores can't read them as well as I can--never had to and fuck knows it took me a minute to make sense of what I was seeing--so she didn't know. Sudha's uterus is--tilted, that's the best way I can describe it and that's just what I was sure of, and I'm pretty sure it's malformed in the bargain. Honest to God, I have no idea how she even got pregnant in the first place, much less carried it to term."

Castiel doesn't let his expression change. "Did you ask her--about that?"

"Kind of, didn't want to scare her," Vera answers flatly. "She said her pregnancy was a surprise, yeah; her gyn told her she couldn't conceive and that's about it. Which no surprise: gyns can be dicks when it comes to details. She didn't even realize she was pregnant until about--"

"Five months ago."

"Yeah," Vera says slowly. "That sounds about right."

"Could you do another caesarian?"

"I already would have if--that's the other problem. The placenta's fine and exactly where it should be, but her uterus isn't, so it's blocking where I'd do the incision, and even if I go in there--Cas, to get the baby out, I'd have to gut her on the table and that's assuming I could get her baby out alive. Best case scenario if I go in, I probably don't kill her immediately but probably kill her baby. This isn't an either/or; if I thought she'd survive, I'll do my best for her and put the baby in God's hands, but--I'm not a surgeon, Cas. She'd need someone who had twenty years doing this in the operating room or she'll bleed out on the table."

He nods slowly. "Is she in pain?"

"Nope, small favors and everything." Vera blows out a breath. "I need to tell her what's going on, but Cas--she's so happy. She and Rabin have the name and the baby room all done and she'll die on that table without a second thought if it means her baby lives. I wouldn't like it, but I'd do it for her, but--I can't even give odds on that. Less than fifty is best guess with someone trained to do it, and Cas, I've done this once two days ago: I will kill it without a miracle, that's just fact."

"How long can you wait?"

Vera blinks at him, frowning. "She's fine right now Baby goes into distress, or something happens with her, that could happen at any moment, but if it were anyone else, I'd say primapara and just watch until her body was ready to go."

"It will be," he answers. "When the time comes, she'll deliver safely. She will need help, but provided she receives it, both she and the child will survive and be well, I promise."

Vera starts to say something, then licks her lips. "I'm going to ask you a very stupid question."

"The answer is yes, to infertile couples only who would have no children otherwise," he answers distractedly. "The mother always survives. There has never been an exception and there cannot be."

"Then--"

"Except the Host left the earth, and if she carried one of my Brethren, I would have known when we met." He gets to his feet. "Don't tell her anything, no matter how much time passes, and let her do as she will: her comfort and contentment are of paramount importance. If something upsets her, remove it; if someone upsets her, shoot them."

Vera's eyes widen. "Okay, but--I bet we can avoid that."

"Whatever works. I suspect it won't be more than two more days, but any sign she's starting labor, any at all, I must know and be in attendance."

"Cas," Vera says quietly, looking up at him, "what is she carrying?"

"Her and Rabin's child," he answers. "And a miracle. I need to meet Dean on the wall. Keep me informed of Carol's condition as well as Sudha's."

"I will," Vera says, slowly standing up. "Cas--tell me you're sure."

"I'm sure," he answers; he almost wishes that he weren't. "If you need a miracle, that is what we shall be. Or do, as it were."

* * *

Dean lowers the binoculars. "Thirty miles? You're sure?"

"I sent a team out in each direction when I checked against the logs from all the patrols and what the people they brought in were reporting," Manuel confirms grimly, eyes drawn back to the horizon. "Double blind: I didn't tell them why, just told them they'd know when to come back. Thirty miles, almost to the inch."

"What'd they see?"

Manuel makes a face. "Not the kind of thing they could see, you know?" He does, yeah. "They're all experienced and I trust their instincts. Nothing in sight, but Dean, there was something watching them."

"Something that didn't go after them." Manuel nods, mouth a tight, worried line as Dean hands him back the binoculars. "And no one's been attacked once they get to the thirty. Anything around Ichabod--cemetery, holy ground, a--I don't know, anything before now?"

"Nothing that seemed to bother anything that attacked us before," Manuel answers. "Anyi's going through patrol records now, but I've been in charge of defense almost since I got here, and I reviewed them with Amanda when she was assigned here. Anything like that, I would have noticed if Teresa didn't."

Thirty miles: it sounds familiar, and not just because of Cas's weather-magic-thing. "Cas should be here in a minute. Send someone for Alison and Teresa." He belatedly remembers Alison's been walking Ichabod and is almost but not quite working on fucking up her just fixed ankle, but survey says she really doesn't care. "Tell Alison's I'll carry her up myself if she wants."

Manuel snorts before murmuring something to Hans, a tall blond German national who could pass for a goddamn Viking, no axe required. Big, silent, and honestly way more intimidating than Dean wants to admit, he used to be a music executive in Hamburg and, according to everyone, can sing the entire Celine Dion back catalogue in key when he's drunk 'cause that's how he rolls. That they have group sing-a-longs in Ichabod where this fact was discovered is almost normal in comparison; not like there's anything on TV.

Watching Hans make his way to one of their temporary ladders, Dean asks, "Where's Tony, anyway? I haven't seen him today."

"Organized a crew to find better ladders," Manuel responds, resting an elbow on the outer edge of the wall. "We found some construction grade ones, heavy steel used at building sites, but they were too big for regular use, and a bitch to drag out for anything lower than four stories. Second choice is the fire trucks, but they're pretty messed up." He makes a moue of dissatisfaction. "Gotta get something soon; those aluminum ladders we're using now will blow away in a mild wind. When this is over, Tony was making noises about building stairs."

"And towers," Dean offers, trying not to sound wistful. He gets this would normally be in geek territory, but come the fuck on; who the hell doesn't want their own fortress? Really stupid people, that's who. "Hey, Bert's trying to get your attention. Or having a seizure."

They watch Bert's gyrations, face flushed bright red with excitement (exertion?), before Manuel sighs, pushing off the ledge. "He's really excited about being assigned to wall duty. Thinks they should have badges. Be right back."

Looking down, Dean watches as more teams coming in with the latest refugees, kids in any arms that can carry them, Ichabod's and refugee volunteers accompanied by patrol teams from some of the other towns as well as Chitaqua and Ichabod's trade partners. He knowsC Claudia's keeping a rough count she won't share ("Above twenty thousand," she tells them, her expression telling them that's all they're getting), recording names, family, time of arrival, and origin, and he also knows which towns are marked for special handling: ones whose members include former hunters from Chitaqua (four so far, who knows who will show up next), ones Teresa and Manuel left under threat of a fucking _witchcraft_ trial, ones who rejected the original settlers of Ichabod, ones that said 'hi' with the barrel of a gun and goodbye with a bullet. Saving lives doesn't mean you gotta be stupid when you do it, and Dean has no problem at all with keeping those most likely to kill their rescuers (or burn them for witchcraft, God, that's actually a thing) together in an easily watched part of Sixth Street. 

At the sudden flurry of restrained commotion, Dean turns his head, fighting back a smile as Cas steadies himself on the wide walkway. Looking around with a vaguely surprised expression, like he's still working out what part of his history of the world's fortresses this part came from, he makes his way past the scattered members of the watch and patrol sublimely unaware of the attention he gets as Guy Who Creates Walls From Scrap (And Destroys Buildings to Make the Scrap in Question), waves of whispers preceding him like a rock dropped in a still lake. From the corner of his eye, he sees Manuel bite his lip against a grin, a pleasant reminder that Manuel was raised by a witch who could move the earth (literally), along with having one as his sister. Fallen angels probably don't register too high on the weirdo-meter after that kind of childhood. 

"Thirty miles, nothing comes past that," Dean tells him. "Wondering why: any ideas?"

Without opening his mouth (probably incipient laughter, Dean suspects), Manuel hands over the binoculars, which Cas takes with an absent nod and catching himself, adding the most serious "Thank you" in the world. Because sometimes Cas slips and forgets he pretends not to know about good manners. 

Dean watches his face carefully, but this is Cas, and an existence as an angel has its perks; they could be faced with a hoard right at the gate screaming for their blood and various internal organs, and Cas would probably regard them with the same blank expression he has now. While shooting the fuck out of them, even.

"That's unusual," he says finally, handing Manuel back the binoculars, expertise in understatement unchanged as well. "Your teams verified it?"

"Feeling," Manuel says succinctly. "Still jumpy when they got back."

Cas nods, not needing anything else; one of the less talked about advantages of having an ex-angel around is Cas treats human instincts like holy writ. _"It's not that they can't be wrong. It's just generally, when it comes to the supernatural, they're not. And leashed to experience, being wrong is the rare exception, not the rule."_ Especially with hunters, and the patrol teams going out definitely qualify. You do that long enough, you learn how to listen; those that don't tend not to survive long.

"Teresa or Alison? Or us?" Dean asks, leaning against the outer rim and trying to decide if there's some kind of obvious plan he's missing here that this might be useful for. Nothing's coming up, but hope springs eternal and everything. "Cas, are they organizing out there? Do they do that?"

"For your second question, I hope not, but evidence suggests something is keeping them restrained," Cas answers, tilting his head to survey the stretch of cars and hints of nearly-bare land before them. "By now, the barrier has weakened enough that the strongest would survive long enough to at least start attacking those still on the roads. Yet so far, only Hellhounds, which can also be summoned."

"The Misborn," Manuel says, looking at Dean, who nods. "Could they be--doing something?"

"They can't pass the barrier yet," he explains. "Or believe they can't--if they can think, which has yet to be established--but it comes to the same thing. They won't cross until at best, a day before the barrier falls."

Dean frowns: will. "You said maybe--"

"That was before I was aware they may have another motivation to be here." Before Dean can ask, he shakes his head. "I think I know a way to at least slow them down or--provided they're stupid, which is very possibly considering this was Lucifer's breeding program--distract them with the equivalent of something very shiny, at least for a short period of time. I'll need Teresa's help. I assume she didn't lock the town wards yet, due to being watched carefully."

Manuel makes a face. "Pretty much, yeah."

"How bad an idea is that?" Dean asks; good isn't even on the table from Manuel's expression.

"If nothing attacks us, it's a bad idea we didn't need; if something does....I'm her brother, and I'll give her everything I have, but she won't risk killing me and will cut me out if she can. Alison--I don't think she can cut her out, but Alison isn't sworn to the earth herself and wasn't born to it. So--not long. A day, maybe, if we're under direct attack."

"Neeraja can't be of help?"

He grimaces. "A little, yeah, but she hasn't offered herself to the earth yet, and Teresa got her to swear on everything she could think of she won't; it's too soon. Neither of them have told Sudha about this; she would do it while in labor if that's how it had to happen."

Cas's expression flickers. "A wise decision. I can distract Teresa for a little while this evening; she'll need to make some adjustments to the wards after dusk, and that should take some time. And she'll be tired, I promise you."

"Thanks," Manuel says sincerely. "So, back to one of ways we'll die?"

"Which one?" Cas asks.

"All of them," Dean says, trying to put everything into a shape that makes sense, a shape in which a plan might surface. Any plan, even a shitty one, is still an improvement over what they have now, which is none at all with additional talking about the fact they don't: not better. "So many ways to die, so little time. Also, the thirty mile line that for no reason exists--wait, Cas, your weather thing....?

"No, it has no effect on this plane except where it touches the storm," Cas says, not stopping to ask if they need that explained because why bother? "Thirty miles was the limit on who received the maps, however; everyone inside the thirty mile limit didn't receive one of the maps telling them to come to Ichabod."

"That's why it sounded familiar." Tells them nothing, but good to know. "Tell me you've seen something like this before," he adds, because it can't hurt to check.

"I'm sure I have, but as a footsoldier, I was one of those called to the battlefield as it began, not to evaluate it beforehand or offer my opinion," Cas answers, a thread of irritation in his voice. "Strategy, such as it was, Michael reserved to himself and the other archangels. Generally, 'kill everything' could be considered a literal interpretation of our orders before we stepped on the field. Well, after the speech, of course."

"Speech?" Manuel asks in interest. "Michael gave inspirational speeches?"

"No, not really." Cas leans both elbows on the outer rim of the wall. "Technically speaking, inspiration was unnecessary. Our response to being graced with our Father's orders should always be ecstatic--"

"Ecstatic?" Dean echoes. "Really?"

"--and of course, righteousness, justice, and wrath were great motivators as well," Cas continues, ignoring him. "Michael was never what one might call original in his material, so it was always the same speech, but he did enjoy giving it."

Manuel stares at him in fascination. "What was it about?"

"Fortunately, neither of you have the necessary context to understand it even if it were possible to relate it verbatim," he answers. "However, a very, very loose interpretation would be 'glory'."

Dean waits, but Cas just stands there, staring pensively at their invisible doom beyond the horizon. Exchanging a helpless look with Manuel he tries for clarification. "Glory?"

Cas nods. "Glory."

"Of--what?" Dean asks, wondering if he's missing something. "Your Father, war, righteousness, rainbows--"

"Yes."

"Which one?"

"Glory by definition. All its definitions, in all times, for all things. Glory as concept, goal, and existence as understood by its nature--"

"I have no idea what you just said," Dean interrupts. "Glory has a _nature_?"

"Glorious," he confirms, beginning to look haunted. "In all its definitions, meanings, and nature, in all times, for all things."

"How long did it take?" Manuel asks in morbid curiosity.

"Due to the lack of linear time," Cas answers glumly, "'forever' would not be inaccurate."

"You're not gonna do that, Dean, right?" Manuel asks worriedly, like maybe exposure to an angel has made Dean insane.

"No, of course not--wait." He glares at Manuel. "Me do what?"

"Give a speech appropriate to inspiring the masses who will be fighting evil very soon," Cas answers, sounding bored, his attention on the pattern of squares on his wall, poking them curiously. "Please make it interesting, at very least, to distract us from potential annihilation."

"You should leave off the annihilation part, too," Manuel offers to Dean's mute horror, and poker face or not, Dean can tell he's laughing at him. Behind them is another wave of new whispers, and Manuel half-turns and grins. Following his gaze, Dean sees Teresa, Alison on her arm, and Matt, Jody, and Andy trailing behind them with the blank expressions that Dean associates with chasing a limping psychic around Ichabod and throwing herself into crowds of strange people like it ain't no thing. He feels sorry for them, yeah, but if he could do it, they can; there are three of them, after all.

"Hey," Manuel says, stepping forward to kiss Teresa and take Alison's arm, her limp noticeably stronger, which Dean assumes is the result of brute-force stubbornness in the face of multiple city streets, every stair in her line of sight, and ladders. "You okay?"

"Fine, thanks," she says, offering him a strained smile before turning her glare on Dean. "Thanks for the escort."

"No problem," he says, and Matt's expression crumples, and okay, fine. "You get a new team this afternoon. Keep 'em on their toes."

"How much does patrol owe you?" Manuel asks and Alison divides her glare very effectively between them. "Firstborn of everyone, what?"

"Dude, the only reward we need is knowing we did good," Dean answers, smiling at Alison's hate-filled eyes. "So sorry I can't hear you thinking: I bet it's 'thank you, Dean'."

"You--"

"How are we going to die?" Teresa interrupts hopefully. "Scale of one to ten on bad news: one, our chances of dying fast are lower than expected to ten, this is the afterlife and we're stuck here."

Oh God, he never thought of that. "Cas--"

"This isn't a particularly mediocre afterlife," Cas assures them, and he's not the only one who breathes out in relief. "I'll prove it. Dean, whistle."

He is in a place where he does, no question asked: how he got here, who can say? 

"Whistling requires corporeal form, oxygen, and lungs with which to breathe, though not--as you can tell--the ability to carry a tune." Dean is going to whistle morning and night from now on. "I don't know why, but neither in Heaven nor in Hell can anyone whistle."

"That is so weird it must be true," Teresa says slowly, forehead creasing. "I like whistling."

"Then I suggest you get your fill of it on earth," Cas tells her. "Also, what is the traditional range a _bruja blanca_ claims as her territory?"

"Twenty-four kilometers, traditionally, but more a suggestion than anything," she says in surprise, joining him at the rim. Manuel hands her the binoculars as he explains what the teams found, nodding with the same calm expression Cas used, one that Dean's beginning to associate with imminent doom. "I'm strong enough to claim twice as much since...." She looks at Manuel, then at Cas. "Thirty miles. Same limit as those maps."

"What can you do with--territory?" Dean asks.

"Claim my right to the earth's assistance and receive power consummate within that area," she answers, frowning, then looks at the battlements speculatively. "I should do that, now that I think about it."

"So you're restricted to thirty miles to get power from the earth?" Dean wouldn't have called that; even he can tell how strong she is.

Teresa makes a see-saw gesture with one hand. "I can influence more, but let's say I better have very good reasons to try. If they're not, that's a breach of my agreement with the earth, and I think you can guess the penalty for a first offense. Hint: there's no first for that kind of offense."

Dean winces as Cas asks, "Did the human infiltrators know you were a _bruja blanca_?" 

"They knew I was co-leader of patrol and helped with the wards, but no one was more specific. They'd only been here for a few weeks, and I doubt they even guessed I was a witch, much less my title and calling. Or that it meant anything, for that matter."

"Could any of them have been exposed to one of you before?" Cas asks.

"We're generally pretty stationary near the border and in Mexico--which is why Dean didn't even know about us until he was clued in--but me and Manuel hunted on both sides of the Mexican-American border and on the migrant circuit. It's possible, but in that way it's possible I could turn green for no particular reason."

Looking at the ground outside, the volunteer groups who waited near the ward line to check those passing into the town, Dean considers the sheer lack of sparks when humans cross and hopes he survives to see the alterations she made to make that work. "Okay, quick question: I know the basics on the wards; anything else I should know? Like why the wards are on the wall and the ward line is--out there."

"Benefits of a stationary and permanent place to put them," she says in satisfaction. "The wall is my permanent anchor now; the line is where I set it, within certain limits. It's at the very edge of that range, fifty feet; plenty of time that if something crosses, I can pull it back to the walls themselves and we'll be warned and maybe even ready to fight when it gets to us."

"Not bad."

"It's one of the reasons I use these wards," she says mildly, joining him and folding her arms over the rim to look down. "I thought about using something else, but with these--I wanted something that would stay up and Sudha and Neer could control even now without making the offering."

"Simple, easy to use--"

"And work on a curve," she says, raising her eyebrows at him. "One of the advantages of using these is they equalize to whatever breaches them: with great power and great intelligence comes great migraines and great confusion--or the equivalent thereof."

"Spiderman fan?" She nods ruefully; he can see why. "That's why it doesn't work too well on Croats, yeah; no mind to work with. Or trolls."

"Very few, thank whatever may be listening; they're like freaking vacuums," she agrees fervently. "Anything with corporeal form--has one, they don't have to be using it when they cross--should be caught, but anything truly incorporeal may be a problem, since without a form the wards don't have much to attack. However, that's the wards active response to a threat; the passive response will still light up where they cross like fireworks no matter what crosses them, so we have to watch. There are other options we can use later if we need to, but these don't take much power, so any of us can keep them up for a while."

"Teresa, I have some additions I'd like to make to the wards to assist with the Misborn," Cas tells her. "We'll begin after dusk, at your leisure."

Before she can respond, Dean hears Alicia call his name from the ladder. Looking over, he notes she's also waving with a lot of enthusiasm. "What?" he calls.

"Headquarters wants you," she says and vanishes back down like--okay, what?

"Go," Manuel says in amusement, giving Matt, Jody, and Andy a sympathetic look. "We'll keep track of Alison until the next team comes, promise."

"Oh _God_ \--" Alison starts.

"Thanks," Dean says happily, and gets Cas's arm, shoving him by Alison and Teresa and following as fast as he can with the other three right behind him. "By the way," he asks as they reach the ladder; Alicia's nowhere in sight. "What are you calling the wall stuff anyway? You decide yet?"

"I've been thinking about that and I may have an idea," Cas tells him as he starts his descent. "Tell me what you think and be honest."

"I'll do that," Dean agrees. "So what is it?"

* * *

"Fuck that!" Dean yells as they enter Chitaqua's headquarters, spinning around to stare at Cas as he jerks off his jacket and ignoring the sudden stop in conversation in the crowded lobby. "You're _not_ calling it Deanium!"

Cas serenely removes his own coat, looking not at all surprised when one of Amanda's recruits--Hector, he thinks absently, okay, he got them all on sight now, awesome--takes it and then Dean's. "I don't see why you're objecting--"

"How about _Casteele_?" Dean says viciously, aware someone's thrust a cup of coffee into his hand--a glance gives him Mel, grinning so widely it looks like her face is about to split in half--and he takes a frustrated drink, wondering why Cas is suddenly looking around in surprise. "Dude, you're not naming your wall stuff after me. It's _weird_."

"Dean--" Cas starts, but Dean's already done with this argument. His retort is cut off by a bloodcurdling shriek, like a banshee attacked by a werewolf-demon and everyone's gonna lose. He's already reaching for a weapon and salt when he looks up and sees Kat: okay, that could be her.

"Andy!" Kat shrieks from above them as Andy looks up at her longingly from just below, very Romeo and Juliet and there's a harrowing moment Dean just _knows_ that she's considering jumping into his arms. Instead, she darts for the staircase, clattering on every goddamn step like she's wearing tap shoes or something, and runs at Andy like a field of daisies is involved before falling into his arms and they make out like it's going out of style.

Honest to God, that actually _just happened_. "What movie are they in?"

"I saw this exact scene--though not in this building, of course--on the Lifetime Channel," Cas says, tilting his head and probably wondering--a lot like Dean is--if they are ever going to stop to breathe. "I don't remember which movie--"

"All of them," Alicia says, tilting her head in startling imitation of Cas. "Sometimes it's a kitchen, sometimes some stairs, sometimes a battlefield with tanks firing, but it's all of them."

Sid, on the other hand, is walking like a normal person--though kind of fast, yeah, but can't fault him for that--toward Jane, who smiles at him, bag sliding halfway down her arm. Reaching out, Sid takes it from her, saying something that makes her smile widen as she takes his hand. To Dean's utter shock, Sid actually blushes: will wonders never cease.

"Their movie, that I'd watch," Alicia says positively. "Bet it wins Oscars--oh, that's so adorable, Sid is so blushing. Where's a camera when you need one?"

It belatedly occurs to Dean that he's seen Mel, Kat, and Jane, three people who as far as he knows weren't here but in Chitaqua. Turning around, he takes in the actually pretty damn crowded lobby: Mel, leaning back against David's shoulder, Liz and Dan beside her, all grinning at him; Lee stoically ready for action with Brian and Evan, a still-smiling Jane joining them again; Sarah, expressionlessly ready for action with Drew and Phil (Kat--yeah, still occupied over there); Damiel smiling like a lot and Frank, Penn, and Zoe, and the rest of....Chitaqua. Yeah, and there's Leah and Mark, okay. Chitaqua's here.

Chitaqua's _here_.

"You're here," he blurts out. Christ, Cas and Manuel want him to make a _speech_?

"Just arrived," Mel drawls. "Heard something about lots of people, monsters, crappy odds in this little town in the middle of Kansas. Dean, you didn't have to add the last: you had me at _people_ and _monsters_. The odds were just icing."

"What did you bring?" Cas asks, and this right here is why Dean will never let Cas resign, ever. There's got to be a binding thing for that; he'll ask Teresa, see what she thinks.

"Cleared the armory and the temp buildings, stopped in at Kansas City at the places Joe hadn't cleared and grabbed everything there, too. Also, grabbed everything from your cabin--and bathroom. For reasons."

"Bless you," Cas says sincerely, which means that Cas now has all his drugs (and weapons, that, too).

"So where are--they're outside the door, aren't they?" Yeah, he walked right by jeeps of weapons, fuck his life. Cas too, he realizes, brightening; he'll never admit it, but knowing is enough.

"Yep," Damiel says and Dean notes Kat and Andy are still not breathing and show no signs of remembering how respiration works. "Leah and Mike briefed us, and everyone here's been catching us up. Tony and the cute one--Walter? Must arrange time for a long chat, he seeing anyone?--got our extra generators we took from the garage, figured they might be useful instead of rusting, and they said they could fix them, no problem. We brought everything we had in the mess Chuck didn't need, figured why risk it going to waste? Alonzo took it--seriously, we get to keep him, right? Please?"

"He's ours, yeah," Dean agrees a little blankly. "Do with him what you will, but be kind. Uh, who stayed with Chuck?"

"Cyn, Amber, and Ron," Lee says neutrally and Dean absolutely wishes he'd been more specific: he doesn't like Cyn here, but he hates her with Chuck. "His choice. We talked to Gretch and Ron before we left, covered a few what-if's."

"Good." Thinking would be good here, too. Something--anything. "Got your room assignments, checked out the building that no, we're not keeping?"

"Oh, we're keeping it," Amanda says cheerfully, standing where Alicia was and now isn't--where did she go?--and grinning at him. "Dean? You forgot something."

Yeah, he figured out that part, thanks. 'What', that he's still working on. 

"Dean," Sarah says, deadpan being a lifestyle choice for her, "what are your orders?"

That would be it. "Okay, first, need to introduce you to Ichabod's patrol leaders and the mayor--"

"They should be here momentarily," Cas says blandly. "I told Alicia to run and fetch them, and she's very fast."

There we go: anticipation of his orders, he likes that. "Get a feel for the town, check out the roads coming in--how did you get in, anyway?"

"County roads, dirt roads, cow trails, and fields, and a lot of them," Mel states. "Also, east gate is almost up; they said to tell Tony and we did."

Before he can think of something to say, Alicia comes back in, flushed and smug, and Manuel, Teresa, and Alison behind her, all stopping short as they take in the lobby and the balcony of the first floor. They look impressed and fuck yeah, _finally_.

"Left to right," Dean says with a smile. "Manuel and Teresa, co-commanders of Ichabod's patrol and currently commanders of the united patrol of everyone who shows up; you answer to them like you would to me or Cas. Last but not least: Alison, mayor of Ichabod and leader of the Alliance; we all answer to her." The three in question nod, and God, this was so worth waiting for. "Alison, Teresa, Manuel, they'll introduce themselves individually, but this is Chitaqua."

"Nice to meet you," Mel says brightly. "Like the wall, by the way."

"Thank Cas for that; I just look at it and feel really smug," Alison answers, eyes traveling around what is, he admits, a fucking _impressively_ armed crowd. All they need is a few bazookas, but really, no reason to gild the goddamn awesome lily here. Then Alison smiles. "Welcome to Ichabod, and thank you. Our odds look a hell of a lot better."

"Odds don't matter," Mel says easily. "We don't know how to lose."

"She's right," Alicia agrees, nodding. "It's weird, am I right? That's the one thing Cas didn't think we needed to learn. Not like he'd learn about it from Dean, so what can you do?"

"Situation Room in five minutes, we start the full briefing, bring extra chairs," Dean says, feeling himself smiling so hard it actually hurts and deciding to be magnanimous and send someone over to Andy and Kat before they die. And tell them about the meeting. And there's Kyle right there: awesome. "Alison, Teresa, Manuel, if I could get one of you--"

"You can have us all," Alison answers, and he's caught by that smile when she turns it on him, hazel eyes bright. "I wouldn't miss this for the world."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a Roman scholar, I just read a lot and Colleen McCullough was a very formative experience in my girlhood.
> 
> 1.) I cannot reproduce Roman oratory, I doubt anyone can. A good speech was maybe a third at best of the whole; the rest was performance art and there's a reason the best got the cognomen 'Orator' attached to their name. Everyone learned it; this was a sign of not just education and culture, but fun as hell. This was entertainment as well as persuasion and law. Women and men of the First Class learned the basics, and there was no bar on women studying it--in fact, for a woman of the senatorial class, it was expected--just using it in public.
> 
> 2.) I cannot possibly reproduce a Roman speech; the style, the language, the use of idioms and popular culture are all very specific to Rome in that place and time. Dick jokes were a feature. Reference to your opponent's size, lack of, or misuse of their dick was super popular. I cannot emphasize this enough; Greece was all about drama and tragedy and super classy comedy; Rome was all the farces, they would do hilarious misfortunes in orgies on stage, and if they didn't invent physical comedy, _The Three Stooges_ would have been right up their alley. Politics was amazing; you'd have people insulting each other classily in Latin while fifty year old senators got into fist fights in the forum; this was normal. Everyone was political because that was the entertainment, it was great.
> 
> 3.) Cornelia's speech is adapted from the style of what was in use that I could find and what I read of [Hortensia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hortensia_orator), daughter of Hortensius Orator, who a little less than eighty years from this time spoke publicly from the rostra itself with Rome's woman to protest taxation; other than (possibly) Fulvia and (not out of the realm of possibility) Cornelia, no women had ever done that before. Hortensia's one and only maiden speech to a packed forum was considered superior to her father--given the cognomen 'Orator" for a reason--and she owned their asses. The tax was effectively repealed and Octavius--you know him now as Augustus--and Mark Antony were fucked nicely and knew it.
> 
> 4.) There is no record of Cornelia's speech--or her making one like this--but we don't have a lot of records from that time, including her massive amount of correspondence, which was published after her death and was very popular reading, including in classrooms for Roman boys. However, there are two things that make me wonder: one, Cornelia was chastised for speaking out of turn or excessively. There was no reason to do that--in her private home it wouldn't matter and was to be expected, Roman women are politicians as well, just privately--unless it was public and public enough to earn a Roman man speaking of it. And if it was badly done, he would have said so (she was a woman, after all). No proof, but on a guess, he wouldn't have bothered unless it was both very public and very, very good. My second piece of evidence is that Cornelia's letters and papers were taught in Roman schools to boys as superlative examples of rhetoric and oratory; oratory is two thirds performance art, and Cornelia was known to have personally trained both her sons in it and I'll throw this in--it was recorded that her sons had her way with words on the rostra (this was both said before and after their deaths). 
> 
> 5.) Cornelia was ridiculously and excessively popular to the point it's almost uncanny. It cannot be said enough--though I will try--she was adored during life and worshiped after her death. Women didn't get statues (almost ever) in those days, and they sure as hell didn't have their tombs filled with offerings from Rome's women. She was loved, admired, while alive everyone visited her if they could.
> 
> 6.) Sappho's life to that point would not be unusual, and slavery in that period of time was universal the world over. However, her fate once entering an upper-class household would have been a very good one and very much as described. Slavery at that time was legally the same the world over--the motto of slave uprisings was "Don't be a slave, own one!"--but Rome had its own specific and very practical way to deal with it because money and power and Rome's belief in its own superiority. A freed (male) slave was a Roman citizen, with the franchise, and would vote for whatever their ex-master told them to and would do it for three generations; it was very good business and political sense to make your own citizens to vote for you. Also, spread Rome. For its greater glory.
> 
> 7.) The Salonia story is real; what I left out is that Cato did it--because he was this much of a dick--as a fuck you to his son by his patrician first wife. You may be familiar with her great-great granddaughter--we know her as Portia, wife of Brutus, assassin of Julius Caesar.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.) Two days late, and I can't even blame work (yet). All things equal, the hard date for Chapter 13 is November 30, but it could be earlier for we are allowed to take off for Thanksgiving. You would think I wouldn't doubt that, but its been that kind of year.
> 
> 2.) I'm about to start validation of Federal COLA adjustments. It was supposed to start last week, but it looks like it won't start until after the first, which gives me about three weeks before Christmas instead of five, so not only won't I be posting, I won't be sane. And I apologize in advance to anyone who catches me in chat muttering about medicare premiums and demons (aka congress). The hard date for Chapter 15 is going to be, at the latest, December 27. 
> 
> 3.) You noticed I didn't mention Chapter 14; that's because I'm almost sure I can fit that in between the thirtieth of this month and the twenty-seventh of next month, I'm just not sure when. However, due to that uncertainly, Chapter 13 may probably be the longest chapter in this book because it won't be split like I was planning. 
> 
> 4.) Thank you for your patience and feedback so far. It is very much appreciated.
> 
> 5.) Please see warnings. Again.

_\--Day 154, continued--_

"Any questions?" Dean finishes, leaning back against the table beside Castiel and looking around. It occurs to Castiel this is the first meeting of (most of) Chitaqua they've ever been able to have without having to go outside or crowd into the very inadequate mess. They definitely need one of these in Chitaqua: perhaps offices might be useful, Ethernet-ready. That would certainly speed up the creation of the camp LAN. "Do me a favor and find out the answers yourself: I sure as hell don't know." He grins at the sprinkle of laughter. 

"The Misborn," Lee says from the back, tall enough that he sees easily over the others (Jane, for example, is up on her knees on the chair along with Evan while Brian just pretends he's taller than he is). "Just getting clarification: we don't know what they look like, can do, or even how many there are?"

Jane's been an excellent influence: that is an entire sentence plus fragment. "Essentially," Castiel answers. "To be blunt, they wouldn't be alive if they weren't both very dangerous and also very useful to Lucifer and they must have a stable form on this plane no matter what their true form might be. As I explained, their ancestry includes a sire that came from this plane, so simply beholding them shouldn't drive you insane or cause you to die ecstatically, but the desire to suicide may not be out of the question. Don't do that."

"Yeah, suicide is never going to be the answer," Dean announces solemly. "That is your PSA for today."

"No one should go alone anywhere, and Ichabod will be passing that to the united patrol," he continues. "If for no other reason, two or more of you dropping dead for no reason is more noticeable and suspicious than just one. Though as I said, it shouldn't kill you on sight, this is merely a precaution."

"So we don't know how to kill them?" Amanda asks from the front row by Kamal. "Even a guess?"

"Be an archangel," he answers. "And use Grace to dissolve them from reality without destroying reality itself. Short of that, there's no way to know. They've never easy to kill--there's a reason we left it to Cynothoglys when it came to one of them--so generally the solution was to put them to sleep and send them back or wait for her and hope they didn't wake up. I leave you this comfort: they can be killed, at least, without resorting to asking Lucifer to do it for us, but without knowing the sire, it could be anything, and even knowing that, it will be far easier to eliminate options than select them."

"Okay kids, shift change is coming up," Dean says. "After lunch, I want new arrivals to get familiar with Ichabod's defenses, the town, and the united patrol; duty for you starts at dusk, we're already updating the shift schedule. Joe, you're tour guide and you're welcome."

From Amanda's other side, Joseph sighs. "Always wanted to babysit."

"Fuck you," Mel says amiably from between Liz and David. "Quick question: in town, anything we need to watch for? Or anyone?"

Castiel's gaze is drawn to Alicia, but she seems oblivious, answering a murmured comment from Jody with a grin and shaking her head.

"So yeah, four of our exes are in town," Dean agrees, crossing his arms. "And we're gonna play nice," someone snorts, loudly, "unless and until they don't. Carol's off-limits, people; bygones be bygones there, whatever they are, got it?"

Scanning the group carefully, he sees little disagreement but what he suspects is a great deal of reserving judgment and suspects Micah and his associates are the reason. Just behind Alicia's team, he sees Kat whispering in Andy's ear, looking unhappy.

"Teresa, Manuel," Dean adds, waving to them on the two couches against the wall. "Special handling: now or later?"

"Now's fine," Teresa says, getting to her feet and coming to join him and Dean, Manuel on her heels. "We've officially set up secret zones for incoming people. Main is off-limits to everyone except those with kids at the daycare, residents, patrol, and Chitaqua. Alliance members go to Syracuse or Second; local towns we know go to Baltimore or Third; Fourth, Fifth, west Sixth, and Seventh, I'd have to get a chart, we're doing this as organized as possible, but we're trying to keep the residents together and near their friends if possible. Exception: the east side of Sixth is designated special handling: they don't know that, and we're not telling them. Right now, it holds any former residents of Ichabod or the Alliance that were exiled--which I'm going to tell you now, takes a lot--the residents of any town known for shooting on sight and showing no signs of changing their policy in a different town, and Dean requested former Chitaqua members be housed there as well."

"And anyone from the town that tried to burn you alive," Alison says acidly, and Castiel watches in approval as the entire militia comes to alert without moving a single muscle: excellent.

"And that," Teresa admits, frowning at Alison. "All the streets within Ichabod are under the jurisdiction of Naresh, our sheriff, and he decides who is on those teams. Ichabod's patrol and Chitaqua's are specifically excluded from those, and within the city limits excluding the wall, all of us--and that includes me and Manuel as well as Dean and Cas--defer to Naresh on civilian disturbances except by request. Naresh has requested that if we see a disturbance and his teams aren't nearby, that's the equivalent of a request but he's to be informed immediately. I talked to Dean and Cas, so I know we all have the same basic civilian rules; don't break them."

"And a reminder," Dean says, cocking his head. "Ichabod's patrol are as much hunters as we are, and they know this town as well as defense better than we do. Integrated patrol means just that; we work with them, not against them, and checkpoints and wall duty are under joint supervision between Chitaqua's teams and Ichabod's. Priorities are as follows: civilian safety first, then kill all the monsters. Both at once is fine." He grins at Teresa. "Anything else?"

"We're good," Teresa says wryly.

"All right, Joe will run you through the rules of civilian engagement while in Ichabod just in case," Dean says, voice hardening. "You flash your gun, your knife, or throw a punch even once outside those rules, you better have one fuck of a good reason or you're out of Chitaqua and under Ichabod's jurisdiction if they want to deal with you; if they don't, you're also outside the walls, no appeal because I don't care. That's not who we are, and it sure as hell isn't what we're ever going to become. Got it?" The nods are universal and very enthusiastic, and Dean grins. "Not too worried about that, though. Dismissed." 

Castiel glances at Dean, who goes with Teresa and Manuel to talk to Alison as the Situation Room begins to clear, then gets up to approach James' team--well, three of them, Zack seems occupied with Sean--and tries to decide if he should wait for acknowledgement or not. Fortunately, James turns around to see him and grins. "Hey, Cas."

"James," he says politely as their small circle opens, and Nate looks at him and his smile falls away. He regrets it very much; Nate so rarely smiles.

"Dean and I need to speak with you," he says, and Nate stills before nodding. "If you would--"

"You mind if we stay?" Mira interrupts, stepping forward and looking up at him.

Castiel glances at Nate's expression. "Of course. Part of this will be told to everyone when we know more."

"See? It's fine." James says, squeezing Nate's shoulder and almost bodily moving him toward the table, dragging another chair up so he and Mira can flank him, and lounging back in an exact copy of Dean. Glancing at Alison, he sees her also recognize the familiar slump and bites her lip. "No place we'd rather be."

"Alison?" he asks. "I'd like to request a few more minutes of your time."

"Sure," she says, nodding to Manuel and Teresa. "I'll check in before I start the afternoon inspections--"

"And lunch," Teresa says with a smile that implies this is not negotiable. "Which we'll all have together like people. At a table, baby. In our house. Remember, that place you used to visit sometimes?"

"Fine," she answers, squeezing Teresa's hand and watching her leave the room with a smile as Dean take a seat across from Mira. Joining Dean, Castiel inclines his head and curious, sits down beside him. "What's going on?"

"The Misborn," he says, and Alison straightens, looking at him. "From Manuel's lack of surprise earlier, you saw that when I spoke to you that night?"

"Kind of," she admits. "Mostly a name for Alicia's Thing Outside the Barrier. Speaking of, is she okay?"

Dean leans over to look at her. "Why? You weren't reading her--"

"No, of course not. Trying to read anyone in this room? I'd be killing everyone for looking at me wrong afterward." Dean snorts. "Admin this morning, she was looking for the lists for the former Chitaqua residents. She seemed really--tense." She make a face. "Asked me to read it to her in case she was reading it wrong. Looked like she didn't get much sleep, I was a little worried, okay?"

"A personal thing," Dean says with a shrug. "That's all."

Alison nods, but she doesn't look convinced, and Castiel makes a mental note to speak with her later. Succinctly, he tells them all the only thing he excluded from his explanation of the Misborn during the meeting: Winchester House.

"So you're saying Winchester House is one of them?" James asks in surprise. "Oh, cosmic entity thing, they're all--those?"

"No, but it's not important," he says quickly when Dean looks vaguely alarmed. "Most can't interact with this plane at all. To return to the subject of Winchester House...." He looks at Nate. "It might be more accurate to say it's only mostly like its brethren, at least now. Nate, with your permission--and Alison's--I'd like Alison and I to see your memories of what happened in the attic at Winchester House."

Nate blinks at him, startled. "I told you--"

"Yes, it was fascinating, but there's something else I'd like to check. May we?" Nate exchanges confused glances with Mira before nodding, and he feels Alison's hand touch his, projecting curious agreement. "Thank you both. Nate, concentrate on your last memory of being in the attic. Alison, are you ready?"

Lacing their fingers together, she nods. "What am I looking for?"

"We'll know it when we see it," he answers. "Don't worry if you feel as if your mind is unravelling or your atoms seem to be coming apart; it's an illusion. Mostly."

Alison looks at him for a long moment. "Flu. Two more days, I never would have made the flight to Kansas. Right now, I'd be living under what is totally not martial law in Chicago. I think about that sometimes."

"A psychic," Dean drawls, "in Chicago. I would have loved to see this."

"You're still on my list. Nate," she says, frowning at him thoughtfully, "don't just do images or whatever. Try for smell--uh, a physical feeling, something as a hard anchor for me. You shouldn't feel anything--no one has yet--but I'll be able to tell if you're upset and pull back. Or yell, that works, too."

Nate opens his mouth, looks uncertain, and settles for nodding, closing his eyes. It only takes a moment--Alison is getting much better at this--and he feels her stiffen when she sees it, but it's more surprise than anything. Taking a moment, Castiel deconstructs it for her, showing her how to interpret it and give it a concrete reference for context. While it should be out of the realm of possibility she'll meet another such as Nate and need to read their mind, he can't count on that.

Sitting back, Alison lets out a breath. "Huh."

"Sharing with the class," Dean enunciates from his other side, arms crossed. "We do it."

"Yes, of course." Under the table, Dean's knee presses against his, and for no reason whatsoever, he forgets what he was going to say. Then, "Nate, you're contaminated by Winchester House."

That is _not_ what he was going to say.

"What?" James yelps, and Castiel sees Mira's arm move, like she's putting a hand on Nate's knee, while Nate simply blinks at him. "What does that mean?"

Abruptly, he feels a puff of warm breath against his ear. "Remember way back when, we talked about easing into a subject?"

"Not at the moment." Especially with Dean breathing in his ear. He wonders if smiling would help; he suspects--from the expressions of the three across from him--it would not. "It's nothing to be concerned with," he says reassuringly, which doesn't seem to help, either. "Nate, I suspect contamination is the reason that you were able to successfully repair Winchester House."

"I just fixed some things," Nate says uncertainly, looking between him and Alison and Dean. "Nothing big."

"Actually, if I'm right--and I am--you were repairing the dimensional rift that Winchester House was sealing."

Nate frowns. "With drywall?"

"And paint," he confirms.

"Why does this sound familiar?" Dean murmurs, shoulder pressing against his.

He ignores that. Mostly. "Winchester House is--for all intents and purposes--a grandson of Ether, but its parentage is--convoluted and reproduction among them ineffable and to be quite honest I don't want to discuss it, so we shall leave it at that. The children of Ether don't have anything like a childhood; as they were at their creation, so shall they always be, that is their nature. The grandchildren are little better, but Winchester House--isn't like them. For one, Winchester House was neither sentient nor sapient at its creation; that came later, which is my point. From what I can ascertain, it did something very new; it began to grow up. However, as with all children, it needed someone to model an example of behavior, and for reasons we should all be very grateful for, it liked none of the examples it was exposed to and--"

"Ate them," Dean interrupts firmly, looking haunted. "Ate, Cas."

Inaccurate, but acceptable. "Ate them, yes. As I know the identities of all who disappeared, blessings upon Winchester House for sparing us their continued existence."

"Yeah, I got that feeling," Nate agrees. "But uh--so what's contamination again?"

"When you went into that attic, you were dissolved from this reality," he says, and Dean makes a very quiet sound with a suspicious resemblance to laughter while Nate's eyes widen. "For less than a millisecond: in that time, Winchester House panicked and seems to have suspended time, rolled it back, pulled your entire genetic profile from you the moment before you dissolved--and for that matter possibly the entire human genome--found every infinite part of you within itself, and very carefully and very thoroughly put you back together. And to make sure that didn't happen again, it traded some infinite parts of itself with you, which in essence is contamination." He searches Nate's face. "You're fine, of course."

"That," Nate says, nodding, "was my next question." He hesitates, looking at James, who makes a series of faces that must mean something, since Nate then asks, "Except for the parts that belonged to House that it...traded with me?"

"Nothing can make you less human, Nate," he says reassuring, then thinks of something. "It's like a free gift with purchase. Or reconstitution, rather."

Nate's set expression changes into--he thinks that's hope. "So--it has part of me and I have part of it?" He nods, and Nate relaxes. "That's cool."

"Some people," Castiel says for no reason at all, "take issue with having some tiny part of another being, even though it was done for their benefit and saved their life." Dean's boot would have hurt a great deal if he hadn't taken the precaution of moving his leg. "It is very pleasant to meet someone who appreciates that."

"Gonna get you for that," Dean murmurs, and from the corner of his eye, he sees Dean smiling encouragingly at Nate.

"It was worth it." Turning his attention back to Nate, he tries how to ease into the next part. Fortunately, Mira does it for him.

"Okay, so got it--Nate's special." She throws Nate a quick grin. "Which we knew. But what does that have to do with the Misborn? Other than--cousins?"

"Best guess on relationship, yes." He starts to explain the rest when Nate's faint smile reminds him of something. "Nate, why did you leave Winchester House?"

Nate's smile vanishes, replaced first with surprise, then much more worrying, bewilderment. "I don't know."

Beside him, he feels Dean come to alert despite no alteration in his slump. "What do you mean?" Dean asks casually.

Nate looks into the middle distance, starting to look alarmed. "I don't know," he repeats. "I never thought about it."

"What's the last thing you remember?" Castiel asks quietly.

"Uh." He shakes his head. "We weren't getting tourists anymore--and I think my company quit or something. We were fixing one of the half floors to get it back in alignment with the others, and we'd just found the ocean in the cellar again, so we had a lot of work to do."

"You know," Dean says, "I'm going to assume that's literal and not pipes breaking, so let's jump to _what_ ocean? Atlantic, Pacific, Indian…"

"South Pacific," Nate answers, relaxing. "But yeah, broken pipes were the cause. Boiler exploded or something, blew out half the plumbing. We didn't notice until the fish started walking up the stairs. Made a mess of the second to top floor: took forever to clean up, had to get new carpet."

Broken pipes, yes. "Did anything," Castiel starts, trying to remain calm, "surface while you were--cleaning up? Such as a city of some kind?"

"No, nothing like that, we caught it in time," Nate answers reassuringly, and Castiel can breathe normally again. "It was expanding fast, though--a couple of islands showed up, House was so pissed--so we had to work fast. It was fine--went to Home Depot and got a pump to get rid of the water, cleared it all out." Abruptly, Nate's eyes unfocus. "There was no one around. I remember--I was trying to figure out how to pay for everything, but House said there was an account and not to worry about it. Since I was there anyway, grabbed the replacement pipes and House helped me pick out the new carpet. Really liked red even though I told it that color doesn't wear well."

Castiel can't help but wonder if at any point, Nate questioned the fact he was debating carpet colors with House while shopping in an empty Home Depot. Then again, he supposes once one has dealt with walking fish and almost witnessed the rise of R'lyeh (as if they needed simultaneous Apocalypses; one at a time is enough) in the basement, that probably passes for normal. And informative as well: he'll have to remember that about red carpet.

"What happened after you finished pumping the cellar free of the South Pacific?" he asks, setting aside for later a question on if that also applies to red rugs.

"Fixed the pipes. While House dried everything and got rid of the rest of the fish, I went to lay the new carpet," Nate answers slowly, staring at the table. "I'd just started when it said--it said something, and then...."

"Nate?" Mira asks softly. "You okay?"

"I was on a road," Nate continues, looking confused. "A couple of trucks passed, then one stopped--it was Debra and Vera. They asked if I was going to Chitaqua and if I needed a lift. It sounded familiar, so I said yes. I don't know why." The brown eyes look at them in confusion. "I never thought about it."

Alison's fingers tighten in his, and he silently projects agreement: there are very few reasons House would take the trouble to assure Nate didn't question how he arrived on that road or for that matter, why he left, none of them good. "Nate, I need you to remember that moment with the carpet. Alison and I are going to see...how that happened. With your permission."

This time, Nate hesitates, and Mira leans over, murmuring something in his ear as James rests a hand on his shoulder and--for the first time in Castiel's experience--looks somewhat challengingly at them. Or at least tries very, very hard.

"Uh, do we really need to do this now? We were on duty this morning, and Nate worked half the night with the crews....which he wasn't supposed to do," he realizes belatedly, looking guilty. "Uh. I told him he could, by the way."

"It's fine," Nate says with a poor attempt at a smile, and from the way he relaxes, Castiel's almost certain that Mira just took Nate's hand under the table. "Yeah, I want to know."

"Alison and I are going to search your mind now," he says quietly. "Relax; it won't take long."

With Alison's growing skill, Castiel finds the two points in linear time--Winchester House laying carpet and standing on the road to Chitaqua--and understands immediately at least part of the reason Nate can't remember anything between them. Instead of a straight or even slightly knotted line or vague curve (linear time does this all the time), between those two points are what looks like an endless series of loops and doublebacks on itself. 

Exploring it, Castiel identifies the original line and begins to follow it, trying to find any kind of pattern. Entire areas of the sequence are bent backward and forward, sometimes the same ten minutes repeated a dozen times, sometimes hours only once or twice, all obviously constructed quickly and at random. There's a long space of days where nothing seems to happen before it abruptly jumps backward to one second after it spoke to Nate and starts again. Stopping, Castiel takes a step back and realizes what he's looking at now; within that seemingly random series of loops is a pattern created and then hidden by an expert.

Awed, Alison thinks: _Groundhog Day_ , and yes, like that, but it's also something else: it's a maze, a labyrinth encompassing not just time but corporeal and non-corporeal space. Following the pattern, he reaches last loop as doubles back to that second after House spoke to Nate as if to start another repetition, but this time, it pulls the end point--the road outside Chitaqua--to occur for Nate almost the moment that the last point ends. 

Returning to the beginning, Castiel finds Nate kneeling on the new carpet and starts the full sequence there.

Winchester House said: _Run_. 

And Nate did.

He ran through endless rooms both within linear time and not at all, and House was grateful for that tiny bit of itself inside Nate that made this possible. It created miles of new rooms for Nate to enter that had no more than the most superficial resemblance to reality, stairs that went up and sideways and sometimes it confused up and down and everything else as well, but Nate was used to such things and gravity, in any case, had always been more a suggestion than anything. It destroyed everything after his passage, but it wasn't enough; what Winchester House gave Nate they could smell, he was unique; they could track him anywhere in that endless house.

The things that chased Nate were something new, that Winchester House never saw before but recognized, however diminished, in their common ancestor: Ether.

They followed Nate: half-seen beings sometimes scaled hounds whose bark shattered walls like glass; sometimes humanoids elongated impossibly and reaching arms of twisting tentacle vines with teeth that bit at his heels just as the door closed; sometimes things that fell apart when they collided with doors or walls; and sometimes all of those at once. Nate couldn't run forever even with Winchester House's help, but the things that chased him never seemed to tire; they'd catch him eventually, unless Winchester House could get Nate away and give them what they came for on that one terrible day that all the gods would die: itself.

That's when Winchester House devised a plan, and only an entity who was the exception to every law of nature on this plane could have made it work.

It built a labyrinth of time and space itself in endless loops and endless rooms, creating a dozen false paths for the Misborn to follow, dead ends that would dissolve them from reality, others doubling back on themselves, but there were far too many and that wouldn't be enough. 

Once Nate entered the labyrinth, Winchester began the second part: room by room as Nate passed, it burned _itself_ out of reality to buy him more time and destroy whatever tried to follow. It slowed the Misborn down, killed dozens, even hundreds, but their numbers were endless and they could smell him, they could _smell him_ , and they were kin; they could follow his scent in and out of time.

When Nate reached the attic proper, House held Nate there out of time--for how long, he can't be sure, but he hopes it was forever, all the time they had left--before the Misborn broke through the door and it let Nate go, leaving him on that road to Chitaqua while the Misborn gleefully began to consume Winchester House alive. It let itself be eaten slowly and terribly so the single mortal mind it learned to see, that became part of it and it him, could escape, and used the last of its power to turn part of itself into what it was before it learned to think: a mindless cosmic seal. To protect the world that Nate lived within.

Beyond that is the rest of Winchester House's existence until the connection broke with its death; the tiniest remnants of it left--enough only to barely survive--were dragged by the sated Misborn to--

"Oh God," Alison whispers, covering her mouth with her free hand while Nate looks between them; on his face is knowledge that until now he was very thoroughly able to deny, that Winchester had so carefully removed from his ability to remember.

"It...." Nate swallows. "House is dead, isn't it?"

It takes Castiel several long moments to find his voice: House's mind was vulnerable to Lucifer, and it spent the very last moments of its life guarding the memory of Nate at all costs. It hurt--Lucifer wanted what it hid for no better reason than House wished to hide it--but that determination was stronger than anything Lucifer could do. It died without revealing who it was the Misborn chased, what it protected, and that fierce pleasure at Lucifer's rage when he failed was the last thing it felt.

_And fuck yourself,_ : he hopes Lucifer never stops feeling its triumph as it finally died with that one question left forever unanswered.

"Yes," he says. "Lucifer killed it with the other gods that day." He focuses on the table as Nate's face crumples, shoulders slumping. "Winchester House was very dangerous to his plans; it wasn't only very powerful, it was power unlike his own that he couldn't take. He wouldn't risk a single minor god surviving, much less an Elder God."

James's arm goes around Nate's shoulders, squeezing gently, and Mira tightens her hold on his hand. Nate takes a deep breath, then another, before straightening, meeting his eyes. "I want to remember it."

"Some of it...." Castiel looks at Alison helplessly. "There are parts it needed you not to remember, Nate. It's mind was very different from your own, and for much of what you have, you don't have the context to understand."

"Give me everything I can, then," Nate answers, voice breaking on the last word before he takes a shuddering breath. "It's mine, and I want all of it."

"I will," Alison says before Castiel can answer, giving him an uncertain look. "I mean, I think I can--clean it up? Maybe?"

Alison is human; she might be able to translate at least part of it well enough for Nate to understand. "We can try," he agrees, turning his attention to Nate. "It will take time for me to teach her, but we can certainly try to give you at least some of it."

Nate nods shortly, a relief (to Nate as well, he suspects). "Nate, there's something else--"

"The Misborn are here for me." Nate licks his lips. "Not stupid. Only reason you would have--eased into it. An why it didn't come up at the meeting."

"Not for you: they can't sense you yet." He can feel Dean's gaze flicker to him briefly. "However, within the next three days, the barrier will be weak enough that they will be able to. They have your scent and they don't forget that; the second they have it again, they'll come for you."

Nate looks at him for a long moment, then straightens in alarm. "I need to get out of Ichabod. They'll kill anyone around me to get to me."

"Uh, no," James says as Mira looks at Nate incredulously. "It's fine, all of Chitaqua's here, the wards--dude, we got kick ass walls!"

Nate doesn't look away from Castiel. "That won't be enough."

"Then we fight," Mira says, no doubt in her voice. "And we win."

"We don't even know what will kill them!" Nate argues. "The Misborn--they took House to Lucifer, didn't they? Why didn't it just--it was an Elder God! It could have gone back to--where the others were, through the rift!"

"Nate--"

"It stayed for me." Angrily, he scrubs at his eyes with his free hand. "To protect me. Because they had my scent."

"That wasn't the only reason, just the most important to Winchester House," he answers. "It wasn't like its brethren; it was born here, and there--even if it could go, it didn't want to. From what I could sense, it knew the part of you within it would be destroyed, and that it would not give up at any price."

Nate glares at him through angry, pained-filled eyes. "You think it'd rather die--"

"I _know_ ," he interrupts. "It wanted to remain as what it made itself and what knowing you made it; that was worth dying for, yes, and so were you. It wasn't a sacrifice but a victory; its last thoughts were triumph, that Lucifer knew nothing of you, and that you were safe. Few gods could stand up to what he could do to them: Winchester House did. Lucifer took nothing from it that it wasn't willing to lose."

"So what can we do to protect Nate?" Mira asks into the brief qui9et, looking around the table. "There's got to be something we can use, anything."

"I'm going to assist Teresa in adding several sigils to the wards tonight," Castiel answers. "That should at very minimum delay them and buy some time."

"And why send him to Chitaqua, no one asked?" Dean asks suddenly. "Anyone wondering about that but me? That wasn't random, come on." He looks at Castiel. "Our wards, had to be. Only reason to put him in Kansas on the road to Chitaqua while Vera and Debra were driving up. Get him behind those wards as fast as it could."

He looks at Dean in surprise. "I don't think they could hold out even the degraded offspring of an Elder God, at least not then."

"Normally," Dean replies, "I'd go with you here, but the cosmic-entity-house sure as hell thought they could. So three days from now: could we get Nate to Chitaqua before that?"

"We'll go with him," Mira says, and Castiel's fairly certain from the way Nate closes his mouth and winces he just got kicked. "Get a jeep, or some motorcycles--"

"I can't drive a motorcycle," Nate starts.

"Neither can I, but I learn really fast," Mira snaps, looking between Dean and Castiel. "We leave now--"

"It took Mel and company three days to get here--" Nate tries.

"We won't stop in Kansas City!" Mira argues. "Use their route--whatever it was--and we get there in what--two, maybe two and a half days? Then Nate is safe, and the Misborn don't have any reason to come to Ichabod."

Dean looks at him, and that leads everyone else to do the same; Dean leads by example in all things. "Provided that my estimate is correct--and you do not stop for any reason--you should be able to get Nate behind Chitaqua's wards before the Misborn can sense him. Though I did tell Leah and Mark to tell Chuck not to open Chitaqua's gates except by my or Dean's order, we can find a way around that. In case he won't listen or read the letter I will write, I'll tell you where you can climb the wall."

"Good," Mira says, taking a deep breath and slumping back in her seat while James slaps Nate on the back. "So we--"

"Cas," Nate interrupts, "if I'm here when the barrier is down enough and the Misborn sense me, they'll come for me, right?"

"Yes," he agrees.

"And if I'm not here, who are they coming for?"

"What?" Mira and Dean say together, but Alison is suspiciously silent. "If they don't sense you, why would they--"

"Because there's someone else," Nate says, still looking at Castiel with a fixed expression. "You said, the Misborn weren't here for me, they couldn't sense me yet. So there's someone else here that's going to bring them whether I'm here or not. Who and when?"

"It doesn't matter," he answers, though it matters very, very much. "They cannot be moved anywhere outside Ichabod's walls for another two days at least, and we couldn't get them to Chitaqua that quickly." He tries again. "It doesn't matter whether you're here or not, they're coming to Ichabod, but it matters very much to your survival if you're not."

"Cas," Dean says, and it's not a command yet, but it will be very soon, "what's going on?"

"It's not important to the subject at hand," he answers steadily. "If I'm correct about the barrier's rate of decay, it should break at dusk in four days' time and must be raised again by dawn of the next day or it won't be raised again at all; the barrier took time to build and the structure must remain intact to be raised again or they'll have to start over from scratch, which I understand is not something they can do--or perhaps it won't matter, I'm not sure. The Misborn are--at this moment--far more interested in the barrier itself and what it might contain; they won't make any attempt to cross until they have reason."

"When," Nate asks, "are they gonna get confirmation? In two days?" Nate sits back and shakes his head. "I'm not going."

"Nate," James starts uncertainly. "Look, I get you--don't want to leave a fight, that's all of us, but come on."

"I was thinking," Nate says, never looking away from Castiel, "that I'm going to ask Alicia to narrow down who can't be moved--possibly for two days--and would be cooler than House's BFF, so much cooler that they can sense them a whole day before me even though they have my scent or whatever. If you try to tell me it's you--"

"No, not until...." He cuts himself off too late.

"Better than Winchester House's BFF, better than a Fallen angel," Nate says, ignoring James's frantic head shaking. "Okay, I'm no Alicia, but I got three: angel, another cosmic entity, or a god."

"It's Sean."

"Cool," Nate says, crossing his arms. "Gonna die trying to save him and he'll be guilty forever. That'll keep him up nights--when Zack doesn't--no hammers required."

"Oh God," Mira mutters. "Nate--"

Alison tightens her fingers, pushing a thought to the top of her head: she visited the infirmary this morning before he did and would like to know why that it being two days since Sudha's labor began, she seems to be doing fine, and Dolores wasn't worried. However, she mentioned that Vera had performed an ultrasound, and when Alison saw her, Vera--not that she read more than mood--was very worried indeed.

"Mira, James, I need you to leave," he says abruptly, shaking his head sharply at their protest. "For reasons I cannot explain, this is something you can't know."

Mira and James hesitate, but Nate nods quickly, reaching to grab Mira's arm as she stands up. "Look--"

"You don't go back on duty today," Dean says quietly. "Our new arrivals need to get familiar with the wall and checkpoints, and volunteer services can live without the three of you today, okay?"

"Thanks," James says gratefully.

"We'll get our room ready," Mira says to Nate, wrinkling her nose, and Nate relaxes. "More blankets, grab an late lunch, and you can try and win those socks of yours back, what do you think?"

Nate looks between them and nods, and James squeezes his shoulder. "See you soon."

"Yeah, you will," Mira answers, and reluctantly, she and James go out the door.

"Dean," Castiel says quietly, "lock the door. Alison verify no one is close enough to listen; if they are, gently push them in another direction." He waits for Dean to return, who instead of sitting down drags his chair around and turns Castiel's to face Alison before placing his beside him and then sits down. A glance at Nate, and he immediately brings his chair to set between Alison and Dean. "Alison, Teresa and Manuel are the only other ones who can know this, including Sudha. She can't know, for her own safety and comfort."

"The baby," Alison breathes, closing her eyes. "That's what...."

"What?" Dean asks, looking between them. "What about the baby? Catch me up here."

"Sudha found out she was pregnant five months ago," Castiel says and feels Dean still. "I can't confirm the exact date, but I suspect it was near the time Alison went into a coma when her abilities manifested."

Alison nods. "She told me a couple of days after I got released from the infirmary after Teresa...." She stops, looking at Castiel. "What's happening to Sudha? What's she got inside her?"

"A baby," he answers, trying and failing not to drawl it for emphasis. "The union of an ova and a sperm, after which division--"

"Skip to the part she only found out around the time I was doing time in comaland? And the barrier came up," she adds in horror, slumping back in her chair. "Lucifer's temper tantrum knocked Sudha up? Tell me that she's not--"

"No, my Brother would never reproduce. He--"

"Skip it," Dean advises him. "Trust me, she won't appreciate it. Right now, anyway."

"Then _what_ \--?"

"A child formed of Sudha and Rabin's genetic material," he interrupts a little desperately. "She was probably not pregnant before that day," Alison starts to open her mouth but Castiel used to hold forth at patrol meetings with hostile team leaders and even Dean never quite learned how to interrupt him when he was committed (and very stoned), "but that would be simple to achieve: sperm and ova would achieve union from their last sexual encounter and within her womb cell division would proceed as rapidly as was safe for her....like a time bubble."

Alison and Dean both look at him. "She had a time bubble in her?" Dean asks when Alison seems unable to speak (but is thinking very, very loudly).

"Only long enough for cell division and development to match four month of gestation." He looks between them and is insensibly comforted by Dean's hand squeezing his shoulder. "Dean, I told you that the relationship between a god and their followers is very similar to a contract, but unbreakable, and the penalty for doing so--if they can--is unavoidable."

"She's carrying a _god_?" Alison demands. "I thought they were all dead!"

"Not all, but they're either in very permanent exile or belong to Lucifer, and that wasn't many, and I can promise you, it was none of them," he answers patiently. "Let me finish: for a mortal woman to carry a god--any god, even one unaffiliated with her religious beliefs or lack thereof--the rules are the same as they are for angels; the child is born mortal, with no idea of its former nature, the couple must be infertile or unable to conceive, male and female both, and the mother always survives. That is non-negotiable. Some also grant fertility to the mother afterward so she can bear more children, as a thank you, or perhaps free gift with purchase would be more appropriate."

Dean and Alison's expressions tell him that might not be; at a more appropriate time, he'll ask why.

"Right," Dean says, expression going through several variations of something before he reaches up to rub the bridge of his nose with his right hand, the one on Castiel's shoulder staying very satisfactorily where it is, "so--Lucifer confirmed they were dead, right, wouldn't appear in the future after that day? They couldn't hide from him."

"Not then, no," he agrees. "Except for one place, as it turns out, which only began to exist five months ago."

"Behind the barrier," Dean says, nodding. "He can't see inside it."

"Exactly."

"So are they still here?" Dean looks sour. "Any chance they could help out a little? We could use that."

"They aren't, if that helps--"

"How'd they even know about the barrier?" Dean demands abruptly. "And for that matter, how long it would last? I mean, are we the only people--and Lucifer--who didn't know about it? Was there a newsletter or something?"

"I doubt it, that would actually be useful and therefore would never happen," he says in exasperation. "For reasons _we do not know_ , a god was near here in linear time at the point the barrier rose and impregnated Sudha, then left, again for reasons unknown. In two days the barrier will be weak enough for a god to pass it, and the Misborn will be able to sense them in here very soon after, and by that I mean possibly only minutes."

"Why are they coming back?" Alison asks. "For that matter, why are you so sure they aren't hiding out here?"

"Because Sudha went into labor two days ago and she has--according to Vera--no way to deliver that child even by caesarian without dying," he answers and regrets it when Alison pales. "She'll be fine; this is natural law, but if they were here right now, the child would have already been delivered."

Alison's eyes narrow. "You're still worried, though."

"It's more a matter of how this happened," he explains. "Gods can be in several places at once, but they are always themselves, even when they divide; to be born mortal, they have to descend, give up their godhood, and--grow much, much larger to be able to contain a human soul, which yes, would qualify as dead or gone, but that also qualifies as a cosmic event that it would have been very difficult for Lucifer to miss. The only reason I'm not using the word 'impossible' is because obviously, it either has happened or will. At least," he admits, "I think. Linear time can make these things ridiculously complicated."

"But this--god doing that thing could happen?" Dean persists, and Castiel keeps his expression impassive, wondering what he's thinking. "I mean, you said it did...or will?"

Castiel thinks carefully about his answer, considering who he is talking to right now. "Yes. What I don't understand, I suppose, is why."

"I thought gods do that shit all the time," Alison says unexpectedly, and Nate nods; obviously, both are far too well read in mythology. "So why not? Beneath them or something?"

"From their point of view, yes," he answers honestly and from the corner of his eye sees Dean bite his lip in amusement. "Free will is mystifying when you don't have it: to simply exist, unfettered by natural law or the restriction of your own nature. A human can be an architect, an artist, a dancer, an accountant, or all of those things; you don't even have to be good at it, you can do it for pleasure or avocation. The child who wanted to be a doctor and liked bugs may at twenty may be a short order cook who has two cats and a president at forty with a dog; they will be and can be all of those things in a single short stretch of linear time and there's no contradiction. That is your nature: change."

"A thousand people," Alison says softly, eyes distant. "Birth to death."

"Exactly. A god is effectively immortal, is gifted with immense power, and they can do anything--but that's all they can be and do for all of Time: be a god. As they were at their creation, so they will always be." He sees Nate's faint frown, brown eyes widening in sudden understanding. "Numbers and impossible home repair and spending time with you simply to learn more about you and enjoy your company: that is what Winchester House didn't want to give up. The ability to do those things and learn and change."

Nate licks his lips. "It--it was worth it?"

"Yes," he says, forcing himself not to look at Dean. "It's worth anything at all, to have that."

Nate straightens, taking a deep breath, and Alison, smiling faintly at Nate, turns her attention back to the original subject. "Right. So--Sudha's carrying a god. And they'll come back so she can have the baby? When?"

"This is speculation," he admits, "but I can still--in a very limited sense--sense the strength of the backlash when it comes in contact with the shield on the weather and calculate the increasing strength. It's not in any way an exact science--or indeed any science you are yet aware of, we're five hundred years from that--but by my estimate, in two days, the barrier will be weak enough to allow a god to pass but strong enough to block the perceptions of the Misborn for a very short time. They must cross at that point and will have a very narrow window to assist Sudha in delivering her child safely. However--and you must simply accept this as true for the ways of natural law are ineffable--they cannot _be here_ in this place and time between the moment it leaves the protection of its mother's body and the moment it draws its first breath on earth; between those times is also the point in which the birth of that child qualifies as a cosmic event. The barrier will protect it from Lucifer's perception, but there's no guarantee it will from the Misborn. We simply don't know enough about them--or the barrier--to know to the second."

"Would the god in question?" Alison asks. "Since they apparently knew about the barrier and how long it would last?" 

"I certainly hope so," he replies acidly. "If it allowed Sudha to take this risk, it should know to the second exactly how to keep her and her child safe."

"Still saying newsletter, and we didn't get it," Dean mutters. "Demons know, gods _who are already dead_ know, but angels, ex-angels, and humans? Not us. How does that even make _sense_?" Castiel tilts his head, and Dean scowls. "Just saying, they want us to save the world? Timely information might help."

"Who?" Alison asks blankly and Nate looks curious as well.

"Demons, long story," Dean says, waving a hand at Alison and Nate's shocked faces. "That? Also was probably in the newsletter we didn't get. I wonder what else was in there? Maybe how we win?"

"Demons want to save the world?" Nate asks weakly, like he's not entirely sure he heard that correctly or--more likely--is rather terrified of the answer.

Castiel waits for Dean to show some sign that perhaps, they should have discussed revealing that information, but no, he just looks--as if he resents the lack of a newsletter. "As Dean seems," oblivious to his untimely revelation, "In any case, please exercise discretion on this subject. We're still discussing the--ramifications."

Alison nods without argument (a first), but Nate simply shrugs. "Honestly? I don't think anyone would believe me if I did."

Dean finally seems to decide he's done pondering the lack of a newsletter and focuses on Nate. "Look, I get you want to stay, but--"

"I'm staying," he interrupts. "If for no other reason than if they sense the baby, when they get through and they smell me, maybe I can distract them long enough for the barrier to come back up--"

"No," Dean answers flatly. "We're not doing a trade here."

"It's mine to make," Nate answers simply, getting to his feet. "Is there anything else?"

Dean looks many things and says none of them. "No. Dismissed"

As soon as Nate is gone, Alison sighs and looks at Castiel and Dean. "Demons want to save the world?"

Dean simply looks at him, and Castiel controls the urge to kick him in the left ankle. "Something like that," he admits, giving up. "I apologize if it seems we're concealing information, but if you wish--"

"Cas," Alison interrupts. "I have upward of twenty thousand people--Claudia says we'll all be happier not knowing--to take care of, a barrier falling, a--thing driving people crazy, a close friend pregnant with a god and....oh God." She squeezes her eyes shut. "Cas, I can't even remember how many things are going to kill us anymore or in what order. Freebie, once in a lifetime opportunity here: you can say 'this is a secret and we can't talk about it' and I'm going to say 'okay'."

"This is a secret," Castiel says obediently, since Dean obviously has become unexpectedly unfamiliar with 'discretion'. "We can't talk about it."

"Okay," Alison says firmly. "Now, will those symbols you want to add to the wards really help?"

"From Nate's memories of them, I can now confirm those and salt will both help," he says, aware of Dean coming to alert beside him. "For how long, however, I don't know. The earliest the Misborn should be able to cross is the dawn before the barrier falls in roughly four days, which means we'll have to hold them for at least a day, assuming the barrier is raised again by the next dawn."

"And if they get in the walls?"

"There are two possibilities: Nate and I will be the only two who they can sense that would be of interest, and for reasons having to do with the hierarchy that I am still--technically--a part of, I'm not their prey; their focus will be on Nate, and they'll kill anything and anyone protecting him before turning on him. That--might--keep them distracted until the barrier rises and they're expelled." Alison winces; she saw the consumption of Winchester House as well. "If they sense Sudha's child's birth, then the child, Sudha, her husband, and all within the third degree of blood relationship to the child will be pursued and consumed and then Nate."

Alison nods, mouth tight. "And we don't know how to kill them."

"Not yet." She raises her eyebrows. "I do intend to kill them; it's just a matter of finding what will do that most effectively."

"Oh, that's all," she says, one corner of her mouth curving in reluctant amusement. "You know, I'd bet on you. Too bad we don't have a time labyrinth to keep them distracted while you figure it out. Or something more interesting than a baby former god and a--Nate." She tips her head toward the door. "If there's nothing else, I'd better go--"

"Inspect things?" Dean says brightly, and her eyes narrow. "Tell Christina hi for me; they'll be waiting somewhere near your house, where you're going to go have lunch with your fiancée." He waves at Alison's deliberately turned back as she stalks to the door. "Have fun!"

* * *

Dean waits until Alison's gone before looking at Castiel. "Nate said they could smell him; was he being literal?"

The very reasonable speech he just finished composing and was about to give regarding the lack of discussion between them regarding the subject of demons saving the world vanishes entirely. "Not literal as in referring to the olfactory sense, but yes, that's one of the ways they track their prey."

"Scent," Dean says slowly. "And you said salt works. Cas, what did you get from Nate's memories?"

"One of the several forms of the creatures that followed Nate in Winchester House was canine." Despite his best efforts, revulsion ripens to active nausea. "Possibly Cerberus, but I doubt he'd risk a god--however diminished--siring any offspring by an Elder God, especially Cynothoglys."

Dean licks his lips. "She was raped by Hellhounds."

"The form was unmistakable, and Winchester House's analysis confirmed their paternal line."

Looking sickened, Dean shoves his chair back and jerks himself to his feet. "Hellhounds."

Before he was mortal, Castiel would have very likely pointed out it could have been worse; now he knows the how utterly stupid that would be to even think, much less say.

"How many offspring, Cas?" Dean demands, almost pleading. "Tell me--not many, this wasn't...it couldn't have been many, right?"

He remembers Nate's memory of how many died and how many still came after him. "He had all of time in that pocket, so he used it. There's no method by which to calculate the number of offspring per period of gestation, much less how many...what is he thinking, _once_ was far too many. The only acceptable number is zero. The only acceptable scenario is that this never happened at all. "At least a hundred died at Winchester House--I think--but they were replaced almost immediately. I think we can safely say 'far too many'."

"Christ." He slash a look at Castiel. "This was an experiment. What are the chances Hellhounds were the first he tried or--or...."

"Very low," he whispers. "And even--even if Hellhounds worked, there would have been many non-viable...." He trails off, thinking of the infinite expansion of stars and Cynothoglys within the heart of a supernova, ecstatic, who counted the seconds until the heat-death of the universe and end of all things. Chained to dead, rotting flesh, her Self spread in a thousand pieces and buried in dirt for eons before he took her out, put her back together, and watched her be raped over and over, carry the offspring to term, and kill the survivors if they weren't to his taste.

For Lucifer is practical in his spite, but sometimes his spite isn't practical at all.

Lucifer didn't kill her, that much he knows, having seen the nature of the creatures he found acceptable that he had made from her; when he was done with her, he didn't let her finally die, no. When he was done with her, he took her apart again and buried each piece in cold dirt across the surface of that world within that pocket of time. For he is spiteful when denied: like a child, he is the center of all and he would punish her for her defiance, but unlike a child, he knew exactly what horror he would inflict upon her and simply did not care.

Then strong hands are gripping his shoulders, and he realizes Dean's crouching in front of him, peering up at him worriedly before reaching up, fingers brushing his wet cheek.

"If I were still an angel," Castiel whispers, "I would search every pocket of time in existence and find that one. I would gather the pieces of her in that rotting mortal flesh--every single cell of her--and bring them together and make that body whole. And I would take her to the end of the universe under the protection of my Grace, and there I would burn away that body so her true form was free. I would let her go so she could watch the heat death of the universe and the end of all things, and in her madness hope to see her experience joy one last time."

Dean nods, mouth quirking gently. "Wouldn't looking at her kill you?"

"Yes," he agrees, voice barely a thread. "It is not preferable, but at least, I would no longer have to remember what was done to her by my Brother, to create those things. They don't merely hunt their prey, Dean; they eat it alive and keep it living for as long as they can while they eat. Dead, it gives them no pleasure; he bred them of Cynothoglys' joy in death perverted to pleasure in causing suffering and pain. That is what satisfies them; their food must be alive and saturated with all the pain they can inflict as they consume it or there's no pleasure in eating it. It doesn't taste good."

"He really only has one idea," Dean remarks. "Croats and Misborn: variations on a theme." He squeezes Castiel's shoulders, silently encouraging him to continue if he wishes; he doesn't, but the words fall from his lips anyway.

"Winchester House knew their nature: it couldn't let Nate suffer that. And for all it could do, for all its power, it couldn't keep Nate running forever; it got tired, but the Misborn never did."

"How long?"

"If in linear time, perhaps a thousand years are within those loops," he answers. "It even tried taking him out of time in hope the Misborn would lose the scent; they _didn't_. They followed him in there, too, and it was so tired...." He frowns. "Winchester House was getting tired."

Dean nods. "A thousand years, yeah. I would be, too."

"No, I mean-- _Winchester House_ was tiring--they exhausted an _Elder God_ \--but they weren't tired." Dean cocks his head, waiting. "That was stupid of me, how else could Lucifer have--that's how he made sure the gods couldn't affect the future or past: the gods were chased from the moment the Misborn caught their scent and they ran them into exhaustion." Pulling up Winchester House's last memories, he examines them, setting them carefully in order and watches the whole in growing understanding. "And he is spiteful, Dean."

"Cas?" 

"The Misborn ran them to exhaustion," he tells Dean. "When they finally caught them, they began to eat them alive where they fell. It was their nature; knowing exactly how much they could consume and still leave their prey alive."

Dean winces. "Christ. Just for kicks?"

"Spite," he says, meeting Dean's eyes. "When the Misborn could consume no more without death, they dragged their prey to that point in linear time Lucifer chose, and that's where Lucifer would administer the death blow to what remained." He wonders why he never questioned that before. "That's how he got all of them to that place and time: the Misborn brought them."

"He could beat them anyway," Dean says softly. "And still--Jesus Christ. Guy won't fight straight even when he's gonna win. You got that from Nate?"

"Winchester House's connection with Nate meant it gave him the memories," Castiel says absently. "Nate couldn't interpret them, so his mind simply set them aside. But they're there, everything until the connection broke with Winchester's House final death." 

"And it--wait. Wait. Cas, you said it kept looping time, right?" He nods, not sure of the relevance. "Could you tell how long was it in real time--linear time, _here_ \--between points Winchester House and point road to Chitaqua?"

"One hundred and forty two days," he answers without thinking, the stops short, looking down at Dean's slow smile. "Nate arrived in Chitaqua on September sixteenth."

"Your time thing? Awesome. Cas? How long--"

"April twenty-fourth," he answers slowly. "That was when the gods were killed. No wonder I couldn't remember when I knew they died."

Dean grins up at him. "So the church--at least one god was alive then, the goddess, and you were there, so--" He stops, searching Castiel's face, and his smile fades. "Cas? We got--narrowed down when you were in the church."

"I was in Chitaqua."

Dean nods impatiently. "Okay, yeah, you went there and removed your memory after."

"No--I was _in Chitaqua_ ," he insists, hearing the frantic note in his voice and unable to control it. "I couldn't have been gone, it's impossible."

"Why?"

"Dean didn't unlock the bedroom door until the day after!" 

"After you Fell." Dean stills, expression suddenly unreadable. "I thought--you didn't remember so I thought--you weren't conscious for most of it, right?"

"If I hadn't been conscious, he wouldn't have needed to ward that room or lock the door." It's odd; he doesn't remember it, and yet. "Bobby said--he said I never slept."

Dean stills. "How'd he keep you in there?"

"Bindings, I think," he whispers. "Some--I think I may have told Bobby to use, but I'm not sure; he wouldn't talk about it. I don't remember any more than that. They erased those--at some point--but there were very effective. There were signs--the walls, there were gouges...." He sucks in a breath and Dean drops onto his knees, moving closer, and Castiel is aware Dean's restraining himself with an effort. "They couldn't--couldn't risk letting me out, Dean. I would have killed everyone."

"That what they told you?"

"They didn't need to." He steadies himself with an effort. "The gods died two weeks after I Fell, however, to the day; that would explain why I don't remember _when_ I knew the gods were dead. I would have--I assume--have felt it in there."

Dean nods slowly, wetting his lips before asking, "And you never got out? And maybe he--and Bobby, they just didn't tell you?"

"Even if I did and no one I knew was killed," which he reflects horribly, isn't impossible, but surely Bobby wouldn't have continued to be so kind if he watched Castiel slaughter people in front of him, "I doubt I was in any condition to think, much less drive to a church I'd never seen before or even knew existed"

"There's that." Dean pushes himself up, looking at him worriedly. "You okay?"

He's not sure, but at this time, he doesn't have any choice. "I think so."

"Then you know what time it is?" He shakes his head. "Lunch."

* * *

Dean decides Cas and lunch are going to get reacquainted immediately, but a glance at the overcrowded mess confirms that's not gonna work, or at least, not here. Go up to their room or stay in the Situation Room: actually, he has a thought on that and honestly, now he can't work out why he didn't think of it before.

"Wait here," Dean tells him and even nudges the laptop temptingly closer in the spirit of compromise or something. "Update the shift schedule until I get back."

Cas brightens, and there we go: he's a genius. He'll have to figure out how to pry it away for Cas to eat, but whatever.

Going to the mess, Dean eyes the room while filling plates and spots two teams of recruits who probably need something to do: awesome. Setting the tray on the end of the table, he smiles at them and sees their faces light up; sometimes, he likes being their leader.

"So what are you doing for the next couple of hours?" he asks. "Something I need you to do. Y'know, if you're not busy." The eager agreement is exactly what he hoped for. "Meet me outside my door in about...thirty minutes, okay? I'll explain then."

After, he takes the tray to the Situation Room and for a wonder, Cas actually closes the laptop. "I’m finished for now," he says, looking at the plates curiously: carne guisada, rice, and a pile of greens, type unknown (as it turns out, there's more than one kind despite the fact they all look alike, which seriously, _how can you tell_ ). "They must be slaughtering their breeding stock by now, no matter how many supplies the other towns brought."

He should probably ask, but there's nothing he can do about the answer, at least until the barrier's back up--Christ, hopefully back up, hopefully it worked, hopefully all those goddamn people won't die for nothing because they're definitely going to die.

Instead, Dean encourage Cas to eat via strategic questions about pretty much anything not related to the barrier, Lucifer, demons, the Misborn, Nate, elder gods, any gods, which means they end up talking about the shift schedule, which results in Dean understanding even less about Cas's system than he did before he knew absolutely nothing and God he misses that already.

"You have no idea what I’m talking about," Cas inserts between column alignments and VBA macros (cats?), and Dean's nod this time is actually true. Looking amused, he pushes his (empty, thank you) plate back. "If you're not interested, you don't have to pretend to be for my benefit, I promise."

"I'm interested," he protests, finishing the last forkful of rice. "One night, we sit down and you show me the entire...process of how it--works." 

Cas raises an eyebrow that implies there are other things they could be doing at night that (hopefully, please God) don't involve a laptop (seriously, no). Or Dean's thinking it and assuming Cas will be on board because if he thinks sex and laptops go together...he's not going to even think that.

"I should go to the infirmary," Cas says without making any move to stand up and eyeing his plate as if searching for food-related reasons to avoid it. "It would be rude to keep everyone waiting."

Taking Cas's empty plate--and earning himself a betrayed frown--Dean stacks it on his with the silverware on the tray. "What are you worried about? Haruhi's getting out, party time. If we had time for a party or," he adds honestly, considering the last party they went to might technically still be going on (was it only a few days ago?), "a quiet dinner or something. Is her team going to be there? Besides Rosario, I mean."

"Derek's assisting Walter at the power plant, though he should be back in a few hours to welcome her home," Cas replies, still frowning at the table. "Alicia said she thinks--thinks that we're angry with her because of what happened." He looks at Dean worriedly. "I am supposed to be reassuring and that is--as you know--not among my skillsets when drugs, alcohol, or sex aren't involved."

"No, you're fine," Dean protests immediately though that's God's own truth and what was Alicia thinking? "Dude, just--" He's drawing a blank. "Don't overthink it."

"That doesn't help."

"Never does." Picking up the tray, Dean cocks his head. "Come on, I'll walk you to the infirmary."

Reluctantly, Cas gets to his feet. "I need to get my coat from upstairs--"

"You take this to the mess," Dean says immediately, shoving the tray into Cas's hands. "Gotta grab mine, too, okay? I need to stop by Volunteer Services anyway, tell 'em James' team is unavailable. Meet you in the lobby."

Cas blinks at him, but thank God for ex-angels worried about their people skills, he just goes with it, and Dean jogs up to see his recruits are early (totally saw that coming) and gives them their orders while finding his and Cas's coats. 

"How do you not overthink something?" Cas asks after politely waving at Jeremy on desk duty (with Joelle, what a surprise) and following Dean outside. "I'll tell her we feel no ill-will toward her and should put the matter out of her mind."

Once again, Dean draws a blank, even knowing that is very possibly exactly what Cas will tell her, word for word. "Sure," he says, giving up; it's not like she hasn't met Cas and won't be living with them soon, might as well break her in early. "That'll work."

Leaving Cas at the infirmary, Dean continues to the end of the street, his mind drifting to how Cas looked when he talked about Cynothoglys and the Misborn, how the gods were killed: spiteful. Lucifer is spiteful.

Dean's always hated Lucifer and honestly, there's nothing Lucifer could do that would genuinely surprise him, though he doubts horror is something he'll ever run out of. He hates him and he's afraid of him, and Cas's dream of that rack custom-built for angels hovers in his mind, all the ways he'd use it, he could list a thousand without even trying. No demon in Hell deserved it more than Lucifer does for what he's done; none of them could compare to Lucifer when it comes to crimes against not just humanity but against existence itself, and no matter what Cas thinks, Dean wouldn't be surprised at all to find out those holes in reality weren't accidents.

For Lucifer isn't just something so far beyond a monster it's undefined; he's spiteful.

An archangel with the forces of Creation itself at his command, who can do anything and everything, and among the atrocities he's committed for his fucked up cause against humanity in revenge for thinking he wasn't daddy's favorite, very epic, he--does shit like this. It wasn't enough to use Cynothoglys in the most unthinkable way possible; when he was done with her, he didn't kill her, he cut her up again and left her to rot forever. Because she said no: for spite. The gods that wouldn't bow to him; it wasn't enough to kill them, he bred something to hunt and eat them alive as horribly as possible but not quite to death. Because they said no: for spite. Croatoan makes a human being into little more than an animal, is a hundred percent infectious, and guarantees they all kill each other in insane rage: he added in cannibalism. Because they said no: for spite. No, I won't help you; no, I won't join you; no, I won't lay down and die for you; no. Like it's not enough for him to win: he has to punish not just those that opposed him, but simply didn't want to help.

Spite: that's why Lucifer came back to Kansas City: to make Sam Winchester look one last time at his brother's dead body; that's why he let Cas walk away that night: to make Cas live the slow death of the world he tried to save while grieving for the man he Fell to help. It's not enough for him to win or even his enemies to lose and it occurs to Dean it may not even be about winning and they may not actually be fighting a war against Lucifer. They might be fighting to stop an archangel from methodically punishing each and every single being that ever told him no straight up to his Father before he destroys Creation itself, not by accident or plan, but from sheer _spite_.

Halfway down Third Street, he finds himself wondering uneasily if they can win something that may not be a war at all. 

The sound of screaming jerks his attention back to the empty street just in time to hear gunshots, and fuck his life, that's from Volunteer Services. Before he can think about it (overthink it), he's running straight toward it, reaching for his gun just as he bursts through the door and into a perfectly silent room.

* * *

The narrow room manages, against all odds, to combine all the worst parts of a prison cell and a hospital room. Bare white walls, the small window nailed over with wooden planks (probably due to the lack of glass, true), it's furnished with nothing but a cot, several pieces of alarmingly noisy medical equipment, and a stack of books in the corner. Which is all it can actually hold; Castiel's aware of a sense of sympathetic claustrophobia just looking inside from the observation room. Despite the cold, he wants to open a window, and it's only with an effort he ignores the fact that this room, devoted to observation of those in quarantine, doesn't have one other than the one looking into Haruhi's room and the one in the door.

Haruhi, dressed in too-large, pale green scrubs, is sitting cross-legged on the cot, currently engaged in what appears to be a staring match with the boarded window, an open spiral on the bed in front of her where she writes her requests for those in the observation room to read.

"How is she?" he asks Vera, currently reading the latest updates to Haruhi's chart at the nearby table. Beneath it is Carol's, since surgery was delayed for one of the many emergencies that seem to be part of life in Ichabod now.

"Nothing's triggered her so far, but--"

"That's not," he interrupts, "what I was referring to."

Behind him, he hears the scrape of a chair and then footsteps before Vera comes up beside him. "Cas--"

"For over two days, she's been locked in a small room with a blocked window, without human contact other than escort to and from the bathroom and medical tests four times each day," he says flatly. "While believing she's under suspicion for the attack on me in the mess as well as aware she may have been exposed to something that is dangerous enough to limit contact to a minimum, including basic verbal communication. She doesn't know what is wrong with her, and no one can tell her because they don't know either, or even if anything is."

Vera's shoulder presses against his upper arm in silent understanding as Haruhi picks up the spiral, black ponytail sweeping over her shoulder. Pen in hand, she starts to write something then hesitates, closing her eyes briefly before dropping both spiral and pen back to the thin mattress. For a moment, the carefully-constructed calm shatters, revealing the maelstrom of emotion before she lowers her head.

"It sucks," Vera tells him quietly. "But it's as much to protect her as everyone else."

He knows that; it doesn't help.

He doesn't turn at the sound of the door opening, unable to look away from Haruhi, the despairing slump. "Hey, Cas," Alicia says, followed by another set of footsteps that he confirms in peripheral vision is Teresa. "Glad you could make it."

"No change," Vera tells her. "We passed the forty-eight hour mark, Alicia. Whatever the trigger is--"

"Yeah, that's why I'm here." Alicia hops up on the table, legs swinging cheerfully as she sets down several folders, a stapled mass of papers, and a library book: _Hoaxes, Myths, and Manias: Why We Need Critical Thinking_ by Robert E. Bartholomew, that's--odd. Now that he's thinking about it, he thinks that he saw it in their room yesterday. Picking up the papers, Alicia waves it. "So Joe started a thing for Dean about what everyone is saying about coming here--"

"I thought we were releasing Haruhi," Castiel interrupts.

"We are, but you three are in the only room in this town I'm absolutely sure no one can listen in," Alicia answers. "Except Alison, but she's okay. At least I think so."

"What does that mean?" Teresa asks, automatically turning the lock on the door, and Castiel reminds himself if all else fails, he can actually punch a hole in the wall if he feels like the room would benefit from a view outside. "What's going on?"

"I don't want to make people nervous," Alicia answers. "At least, more than they are. Nervous people become anxious and irritable, anxiety leads to paranoia, and paranoia under the right conditions lead to shoot-outs in the mess, YMCA, and library."

"If you have information on what is occurring, Dean should be here," Castiel starts and then rewinds. "You said Alison was fine."

"I _think_. And by implication, Dean isn't, yeah," Alicia agrees, nodding. "Him, I'm definitely sure. You, it's fifty-fifty, but if I'm right about what happened in the mess--well, you and Teresa are kind of my anchor people here anyway, so needs must as surely someone says, though I never met anyone who did."

"I use it," he answers, and then wonders on the relevance. "Alicia--"

"Probably where I heard it, then." Alicia waves the report again. "Okay, so Joe's report for Dean--it was at the front desk, I just borrowed it--and having read it--"

"When?"

"On the walk here," she says with a shrug, and he sees Vera and Teresa stare at the mass of pages before giving Alicia an incredulous look. "Matt and Jody carried the boxes for me. Anyway, I think I know what Dean was thinking and he was right. Here we go." She flips the pages and starts to read. "People trying to take their guns, their neighbor who is trying to kill them, pack of wild dogs and/or coyotes and/or wolves--canines are popular sources of terror--hurricane--yes, in Kansas, just roll with it--their ex-spouse, allergy season, snakes, spiders, demons, vampires, Communism, earthquakes, immigrants--"

"Immigrants," Teresa says incredulously. "In the infected zone?"

"I'm not saying they're aware of irony," Alicia agrees sympathetically. "Also--ohh, interesting: buried alive, lost in endless space, being pushed and falling into a crevice, things with lots of creepy holes, falling forever--okay, I think that clarifies things, you see what I mean?"

"Things you fear," Teresa says, nodding as she gets a chair, pulling it to observe Alicia and Haruhi both. "That part I got, but they think--"

"Yes, but also no. Think about it; these aren't even the same kinds of fear," Alicia interrupts. "Or even the same psychology, except vague category known as 'Things Which People Fear'. Paranoia, phobias, what I'm pretty sure are very specific triggers for PTSD, conspiracy theory, plots from horror movies that kept you up a week--fine, a month--and then, actual normal, for value of normal, reasonable concerns and anxieties all mixed up, it's a grab bag, no rhyme or reason. Interesting, right? Like something--say, a coercive--just flipped literally the first, easiest, or closest switch it came across whether it made sense or not and used that." Alicia looks up. "Grabbed the first thing it could and said 'This is chasing you. Run'."

"That's what the coercive did to get them moving," Teresa says, startled, and grabbing one of the chairs, takes the offered report, reading down the page. "Okay, that would actually work."

"Mostly work," Alicia corrects her. "At least--"

"That doesn't make sense," Vera argues. "How can falling into a crevice chase you?"

"It's always chasing you," Castiel says, staring blindly into that tiny room. "Just sometimes, you can almost forget, and sometimes...sometimes, you need to sit on a porch or roof or in a field until you can breathe again."

Vera blinks, looking between Castiel and Alicia uncertainly

"You don't have a phobia, do you?" Alicia asks and Vera shakes her head. "Impossible to explain unless you have one, then you don't need the explanation: you _know_. One cockroach, how could it hurt me? I don't care: _kill it with fire_. This is a panic button: thinking shuts down and reptile brain wins every time."

Teresa nods grimly. "A grab bag."

"Only explanation is either whoever did this didn't understand what fear was, understood way too well, or just did like, 'fear' and the coercive took that literally," Alicia says. "No proof, but I'm going with the third, because one, as yet, this has shown no sign of being done by anyone even reasonably competent, just super determined, and two, it explains something else--our arbitrary number of people who go homicidally crazy. Cas, I was wrong--you weren't the catalyst, we still don't know that, but we do have this: the crazy is this thing abruptly--for actual catalyst reasons--slamming down on that panic button."

"Phobias," Teresa says, lowering the report. "PTSD. Trauma. That would explain it."

"Cas said it, it's always chasing you, but most of us, we can talk ourselves down, and they are, pretty goddamn well so far. Then catalyst: they snap. I hate to say it, but our Homicide Five probably couldn't stop, especially since they had no idea this was artificially induced and from the inside, that wouldn't matter anyway. Panic button, and worse--if I'm right--this thing is trying to make it as real as possible, at least to them, because to get these people moving, they had to believe it. We're talking very real flashbacks, hallucinations, all the fun ways the brain fucks with us when we _don't_ have something actually forcing it to happen.

"Psychosis," Castiel says, and Alicia nods. 

"And in any given room, just math, you're gonna have a few people with those buttons, especially in the infected zone," Alicia continues. "If we assume everyone coming in has a coercive on them, suddenly it's not that it's happened, but why it's not happening more."

Teresa frowns. "It can't be that simple."

"Actually, it's so simple it manages to make it all the way to complex and back again," Alicia answers, and Castiel notes her legs are no longer kicking. "Couldn't find Waller, but the library's a mess, so had to settle for Bartholomew and his thing for shrinking genitalia--Chapter 9--and the Encyclopedia Britannica. What can you tell me about the Dancing Plague?" She opens the book and points. "That was Chapter 10."

* * *

Here's where Dean might just admit his situational awareness might need more work; it takes him a whole five seconds before he realizes everyone's way too still, and sees the flash of a muzzle just in time to pull his gun without thinking if he should actually do that.

Son of a bitch: Cas is gonna kill him for missing this.

The ground floor of Volunteer Services is basically one giant room and two smaller ones in the back, which Tony said was because in a former life it was a super trendy gallery, which Dean was unaware was a thing in small towns in Kansas but okay. There's still some weird echoes of it, too; the remaining scraps of paint are all superwhite, which may not mean anything but he didn't think colors came in a white that's almost painful to look at. 

Despite the size, they're probably well over the semi-existent firemen's recommended number of people; picking between overturned chairs and bags, he's putting the total number as above two hundred and that doesn't include the second floor, where Dolores set up one of her EMT's to do quick triage of those not needing immediate assistance and volunteers work at organizing housing and giving out clothes and shoes and snacks to those waiting.

The volunteer desk is set just in front of the stairs two-thirds of the way into the room, and Dean makes a mental note to talk to Naresh or Manuel about coming in here and working out how to makes sure the volunteers have at least one clear line of evacuation other than the stairs, since setup right now means they're under siege with no way out. 

"Don't shoot," he hears himself say like a civilian in a shitty blockbuster (the one that always dies). On the other hand, it works.

Raising his arms, he focuses on the five armed people in the center of the room; probably new arrivals, two of them with faces still burned red from the cold and wearing heavy winter coats despite the warmth of the room but no gloves or hats. Brown-haired guy with plaid coat, farthest from him, so pale that the red of his cheeks looks painted, carrying a Bushmaster carbine, great; tall guy with grey coat, dark skin nearly grey with exhaustion, Remington maybe-semi (he hopes); huge guy with beard (thanks) is the one with the shotgun and what looks like a Browning with post-purchase auto upgrade; the only woman, red hair in a messy bun, has a fucking _Beretta_ that someone removed the 'semi' from auto if he's right (he is); Jesus Christ, they're about five seconds from a mass murder by _accident_ , every goddamn one of them with a finger on the trigger that's about as steady as a leaf in gale-force winds.

Surrounding them are fuck knows how many terrified people on sleeping bags and between overturned chairs, and in the back of his mind, Dean notes how still they are, even for people with guns trained on them. And in the middle of the room, one still figure may be all the motivation they need to stay where they are.

"Everyone stay calm," he says, more from the need to say something than any actual belief that will do shit. These people aren't just still; they're frozen, eyes wide and blank, like a rabbit in headlights, nowhere to go; other than the harsh sound of panting from those holding the room hostage, it's utterly silent. Haruhi and Rosario: both reported freezing, cause unknown; the mess, Cas said no one moved; Mira, same thing. "My name is Dean Winchester. I'm here to help."

It's not just some people affected by whatever this is; it might be everyone coming into Ichabod. Which levels this up considerably, and that's not including how Haruhi and Rosario got it.

"Put down your gun!" the bearded guy shouts, and Dean so doesn't like the way he can't keep that barrel still. Sure, that raises the chances of missing _him_ but no matter where he shoots there's gonna be guaranteed casualties. The other three don't even have to aim right now; they will hit a lot of someone's if they close their eyes before pulling the trigger.

"Got it," he says, keeping the man's gaze locked on him as he slowly lowers himself into a crouch and even more slowly lowering his gun hand toward the ground. "So how about you point that somewhere else? Where there aren't people?"

The man's expression doesn't change, focused on Dean like there's no one else in the room (good) and as he feels the floor click against the gun, he sees the utter terror beneath the anger: flight, fight, or freeze, there's something going on in this room that's _making_ this happen. And it's not getting any calmer, either; if anything, it's getting worse, and from the way all their fingers tremble on the triggers, it's taking everything in them _not_ to shoot up the place.

"Look," he says calmly, keeping the guy with him, "you don't want to do this. Just--"

"They followed me here!" the guy spits out, face flushing even more, and Dean wonders if this ends with the guy stroking out in front of him or something. Nice thought, but he just doesn't think that will help much with the other three. "She was one of them! I had to--" He falters, face twisting. "I had to stop her."

Dean doesn't look at the body on the floor. "Right. So she's dead; it's over. So put down your gun--"

"It's not over," the woman whispers, and wet brown eyes look at him pleadingly. "I'm so tired, but they're still coming. I can see them."

He nods, watching her carefully. "What's chasing you?"

"No one else believed me," she answers despairingly. "Why would you?"

We're going to be the most credulous people in the world. "Try me."

She swallows hard, eyes flickering restlessly before she blurts out. "I'll fall if I stop. I saw--I'll fall."

Assume all of them are speaking God's own truth. "You," he says to Remington, and immediately raises his hands higher at the jerk of the barrel. "What's after you?"

Remington doesn't look all that willing to share, but after a moment he says, voice tight, "I don't know. All I know--when it finds me, it'll bury me in a box forever." The long finger on the trigger starts to tremble again, and Dean keeps their eyes locked. "Can't get out, keep screaming…."

"Got it," he says soothingly. "Okay, now--"

"It was her!" Beard interrupts, and Remington and Beretta both nod frantically. "She's calling them, telling them where we are!"

Dean takes this as permission to actually get a look at the body. He can't see much, and for that matter, there's not much left of the back of her head. Half her face, streaked with blood, is turned toward him, half covered by short brown hair, the one eye left staring sightlessly, but even so, she looks familiar, like….like he's seen her before. 

"Too many people," Bushmaster says with terrifying paranoid certainly, like he's trying to reassure her, and to his horror, she nods and so do Remington and Beard with his shotgun still trained in Dean's head. "It could be any of them. Or all of them."

"Less people outside," Dean points out as he pries his finger from the trigger. Crazy-logic in progress is not an improvement and he's not counting on them missing the very obvious solution to this entire 'too many people' problem. Also, crazy-logic or not, that doesn't mean he's not right about the people. Crowds and three rooms and people and math: what did Cas tell them about space again? "Door's right behind me. Road's nice and--deserted. Fresh air, it's good for you." He meets Beretta's eyes. "Don't even have to put down your gun. Just walk outside."

Beretta looks at him in betrayal. "You think we're crazy."

"I don't _care_ ," he snaps when Bushmaster's trigger finger starts looking way too itchy, "Too many in here, I get it. So how about this: let me get some of them out of here." He focuses on Bushmaster. "I can fix this; let me try."

Getting slowly to his feet, he sweeps the room with another look, wondering belatedly how he's supposed to get a bunch of semi-catatonic people moving: he'll figure it out. Aware of their eyes--and at least one gun--following his every movement, he goes to the closest people and crouches enough to look directly in their eyes, wondering if they're even tracking. Only one way to find out.

"You understand me?" he says quietly, watching their faces and thinking--okay, that's kind of a nod. "I need you to stand up and go outside."

Nothing: yeah, he didn't think so, and what he wouldn't do for Cas's freakish ability to drag up leftover 'angel of the Lord' and throw it at people like a goddamn brick of 'get this shit done'.

"Stand up," he tries in his best 'get this shit done' voice and reaches for the closest person's arm and drags them to their feet--oh God, please don't shoot--and notes standing on their own is still in their skillsets. He can work with this. "Go out the door," he says, turning them in the right direction and giving them a push.

Barely breathing, he watches them slowly cross the room to the door and push it open before vanishing outside, and okay, now he's got a plan. Pretending there aren't four very crazy people with guns watching every move he makes (and liable to fuck up his plan with a rain of gunfire), he goes for the next person. 

"Stand up," he says as he helps them to his feet, trying a smile because it can't hurt before turning them toward the door and giving them a push. "Go out the door. It'll be fine"

* * *

Teresa stares at Alicia for a moment. "You don't think--"

"That's why I decided to ask you," Alicia says apologetically. "I mean, I'm right, but I need to know the circumstances that surround me being right. You're familiar with it, right? I can get the Encyclopedias from downstairs. Matt carried them over for me with the boxes."

Vera sighs noisily. "Anyone want to catch us up?"

"Middle ages mystery," Alicia supplies. "The Dancing Plague of 1518."

"Required reading for a witch," Teresa says wryly. "It's a very rhythmic example of a badly-cast coercive gone viral; started with one woman crazy dancing in the street and within a month, there were four hundred dancers and a lot of dead bodies from those who danced themselves to death."

Vera swallows. "That can happen?"

"Usually anyone ambitious enough to set up a dancing coercion would know how to do it well. Best guess, worst possible combination in history: someone vengeful, ambitious, knows just enough to be dangerous, and stupid as fuck." She leans back, looking at them thoughtfully. "Not a compulsion: this is a geas, no real discipline per se, that's why we can't trigger it in any of them. That makes sense for amateurs. It's the simplest thing you can do and lowest level on the chain; it doesn't take power, just a small amount of talent and a very, very strong will."

"Be more specific," Vera says, reaching for her notes automatically as well as a pen. "How does it work?"

"In a sense," Teresa says, looking at Castiel ruefully, "it's a party trick: do this--or feel this, action plus 'this'--or something unspecified but terrible will happen, your brain decides. Nothing happens if you don't do it ," she adds reassuringly. "In fact, if this is a geas, it's easy to break; don't do the thing, you don't die, your brain basically throws it out, it's done." Her expression darkens. "That part's a built-in; it should still work no matter what else they fucked up."

Looking between them, Teresa thinks carefully and Castiel notices Alicia's got a pen and is taking notes on the back of Joe's report.

"The Dancing Plague was a geas placed on a woman who pissed someone off," she starts. "Best guess: it was supposed to be embarrassing--woman crazy dancing in the street--but considering the time period, they may have also thought it'd be funny to have her burned for being possessed or something, no way to tell. Then it started to spread; that part wasn't expected, that much we're sure of from the original design." She looks between them. "Here's the thing with any coercive, from a geas up to mind control; they all have a very specific pattern, like grammar in a sentence. There is the subject/object--that's the person--the action--what they're supposed to do--any hilarious details they want to add, and for compulsions, the discipline and any details there, the end point or when it should stop--until whatever--and the surprise requirement of prepositional phrases, _on_ and _to_. Illustrative example, do not try this at home: on Sarah is set a geas to dance in the street until her feet hurt to Sarah alone."

"So the geas has to be placed on Sarah and also set _to_ Sarah," Alicia says, looking at Teresa intently. "So it makes her do the action--that's the _on_ \--and you _also_ need the _to_ , because it's supposed to be just her getting the geas?"

Teresa nods. "Got it." 

"Magic has grammar." Alicia enthusiastically writes that down before looking attentively at Teresa. "Weird yet logical grammar. I love grammar."

"Fairly strict gramma at that, lots of points of failure, but the most common is leaving off that second prepositional phrase. You leave it out, and your geas in theory can then go 'to' anyone. It'll probably just sit there doing nothing, since that anyone isn't the 'on': Sarah. Unless there are five Sarahs, or subject/object is something really helpful, like 'on this woman who offended me', or 'on this person who steals sheep'."

"I can already see where this is going," Vera says glumly.

"Then you're smarter than about half the people who try these," Teresa tells her. "Miswritten geas, a population of greater than one, and it starts to spread, inert in most, but activating in everyone who qualifies as 'subject'." Teresa scowls. "Grammar: actually kind of useful. It's the equivalent of learning basic sentence structure in elementary school, for God's sake."

Vera visibly braces herself. "How often does that happen?

"Generally, when you're pissed at Lucy the miller's daughter for stealing your man, that's a fairly good indicator if your town has no other Lucys or none of them banged your man down by the river. Which leads us to point two, the great fixer of all magic problems and the reason for them: when you're using magic of any kind, it both wants to do what you tell it to and _doesn't_ want to do what you tell it not to. To the goddamn _letter_." 

Alicia nods in understanding. "Don't tell me: the space is vast between those two things."

"Verily," Teresa agrees. "That's where most of the failures come in; if the geas can't work out what you want or what you don't, it fails. Even when it works, at this level, it's fairly rare to go dramatically off-course, especially when the population in your area is under a hundred. Then we get the perfect storm: the Dancing Plague." She makes a face. "Good size town, not so bright caster, and 'on this person who has offended me is placed this geas that they dance until they no longer can' and just thinks sticking it _on_ that one person will be enough: not even a sex or gender delimiter, for fuck's sake. Not to mention how many ways the geas can interpret 'until they no longer can'. Cue our original victim dancing in the streets, other people showing up looking upset, and someone--poor fucker--feeling bad for our dancer, our caster is offended, the geas activates, and dancing for two. Our caster accidentally thinks how she always hated the poor fucker's rock throwing kids and slatternly or rakish spouse--they show up, physical contact or even proximity depending on the strength of the geas lets it pass, it activates in them, and family's dancing their lives away." 

"And how does it go viral?" Alicia asks.

"Without the 'to'? It _will_ go viral," Teresa answers. "That's a given; it's going to happen. The question is how much, and that depends on how shitty they designated the subject. And that's when things get interesting. So for the purposes of this conversation, the person or persons who receive the geas from origin are Zero; everyone who gets it directly from a Zero are Ones and so on, and then this goes a few possible ways, none great. You ever play telephone when you were a kid?"

Alicia and Vera both wince. "You about ten or twenty other kids sit in a circle," Vera explains at Castiel's frown. "The first one whispers a sentence or something to the one beside them, then they tell the person beside them, all around the circle. By the time it gets back to the first, it's usually nothing like the original."

"Pretty much exactly like that," Teresa says. "The farther it gets away from the original person or people it was cast on, the more generic any part of the geas is, the weirder it can get, and no, it's not predictable. Six degrees is threshold, however; by the time we get to Sixes, it doesn't matter what it started as, it could be anything."

Vera leans back in her chair, looking stunned. "Okay, million dollar question: why doesn't this happen more often?"

"In a sense," Teresa says slowly, "they do: they just usually fail. The minimums of subject and action have to be there, and the geas must understand those two or it won't work or stick, and that can be as easy as saying 'person who stole sheep' and as it turns out, they didn't steal any sheep, you just thought they did. The last thing you need is will, and a lot of it; overriding someone's free will like this isn't easy and to spread, you have to have invested a lot of will in the geas in the first place or it burns out. Most of the time, even journeypersons to the craft wouldn't have the kind of will--even pissed off--to make the geas strong enough not to burn out fast, especially if they messed it up. Add in telephone, and by the second degree, the instructions usually make no sense; don't do the thing, it's over." She looks at Castiel and takes a breath. "In the very rare times one of these goes wrong, either on purpose or deliberate, and works--let's say that's not the kind of thing that doesn't show up like fireworks to another witch."

"Like you," Alicia supplies, voice neutral.

"Like me," Teresa agrees. " _Bruja blancas_ of my tradition follow natural law, the same thing that rules human interaction with the supernatural; we enforce it. You fuck with a coercive and violate free will without full and knowing consent of all parties, you better have a better reason than 'fun'. I catch someone doing it, it's my call what happens next: out of seven I've caught, in my capacity as a _bruja blanca_ , one was let go because young and stupid but no malice, and I apprenticed him to a local witch, who I promise was gonna teach him the error of his ways herself."

"And the others?"

"Three had to take back all they'd given tenfold or ten years, whichever comes first," she answers. "Two I executed outright; that kind of ability used for pure malice and profit isn't just dangerous, it's a disaster waiting to happen and there's no first offense when it comes to that. And one...." She licks her lips. "I made a bad call. I blocked her--or so I thought--and sent her home to await judgment. Nepotism, can't escape it; she was one of our apprentices."

Alicia and Vera nod as Teresa takes a moment to collect herself before continuing.

"She was one of ours, and--it's funny, this is part our training, dealing with one of our own going bad, it's part of our promise to the earth, but it'd been generations since it happened. I did the bindings before I left, I had her blocked, but either I wasn't careful enough--which is very possible--or she was stronger than we thought. While I was on a job, she called something that she couldn't control--which was the point, though it wouldn't have been better if she could--and let it loose on the border. It was too fast to even contain, much less stop, and it just got stronger and stronger--and of course, for the first time in memory, someone not one of us noticed what was going on at the border and cared enough to investigate and try to help." She gives them a rueful look. "They were good, too; figured out just enough to be dangerous to themselves but not enough to do anything, and wouldn't stop trying. And smart enough to know it and work out something was missing, doubly dangerous. It was either call me back--and hope the death count didn't get worse and that's assuming I'd be in time to do anything--or roll the dice and see if the guy who knew just a little too much could deal with knowing it all. And be willing to give that up when he was done. That's two dice with a hundred sides each, and genuine surprise, we got snake eyes."

Alicia tilts her head, looking at Teresa intently. "Hard to give up that much power?"

"Not just power," Teresa corrects her. "Power's useless without knowledge; where to get it and more importantly, how to use it. They couldn't bind him with a deal--human to human, that's what lawyers are for--but he didn't even hesitate. When it was over, he walked back into the circle and let them take it away, didn't even care as long he was sure it was over." After a moment, she shakes herself. "Back to subject: assuming this is a geas--and everything points to that--all we need to find out is origin."

"Vector," Alicia says wisely, and both Teresa and Vera straighten, looking at her suspiciously. "I needed to be sure, and Cas, I love those candles, by the way. Those helped a lot."

"They did?"

"They did. Emotional infusions in amorphous substances," she says, smiling at their stunned faces as she removes several sets of surgical gloves from her pocket and handing them each a pair before putting her own on and picking up the folder. "Would that work with toner?"

* * *

Dean entertains himself by doing math; at the rate he's going (average: a minute and a half per person, roughly under three hundred, he thinks) it's going to take him upwards of seven hours to clear the room, and he has no idea how many people are upstairs or if there are any. Five hours, whatever: he gives this another thirty minutes before his crazies lose whatever hold they have on their homicidal tendencies. On the other hand, every person he gets out of this goddamn room is one less casualty in the ever-present potential for mass murder.

Dean tries to remember Mira's report on how this went down, marking down the similarities with the mess and the YMCA and adding in the patrol line. No casualties at the patrol line (if that's what was going on there): patrol stopped it too soon; no casualties in the mess: Cas walked out; eight at the library: Mira interfered but it kept going until eight were dead; thirty eight died at the YMCA: no interference, presumably stopped when all those acting homicidal were dead, he should have double checked that.

"Stand up," he tells an elderly couple and feels like such a dick but saving lives, helping people isn't always polite, fine. Bracing a hand under the man's arm, he helps him to his feet first and then the woman, but the fine tremors in her hands don't reassure him they can make it outside. "Come on," he says, looping a protective arm around her shoulders and getting hold of the guy's elbow. "Let's get you out of here."

Walking them to the door, he pushes it open, and just stops himself from shouting; all his sheep are gathered in an uncertain mass of now standing terror just outside the door and spilling onto the road like they stopped moving the first moment they could once they got out the door. 

Where the hell is everyone, anyway? He tries to calculate how long it'll be until the next bus if these are the newest arrivals, but he can't even be sure of the relay time; every twenty minutes, they're overdue like hell, every thirty, every hour? Did one run out of gas? That would happen to him: glittery wall and bus out of gas. 

Turning back, he looks around the room and row upon row of blank, terrified eyes--still way too full even though he's pretty sure it's been at least a month since this started--and skates over the too-still body to see a face he recognizes among the masses of people still waiting.

Crossing the room (Beard really, really needs a drink or a heart attack already: he'll take either one, just get his goddamn finger off the trigger), he crouches, and yeah, Cas's candle-dealer and--fuck their lives--Lourdes' sister. Volunteers now, too, not just Ichabod's patrol. Goddammit.

"Wendy?" For an endless moment, he thinks she's too frozen to even realize he's there before he sees a flicker of recognition, her head jerking in a slight nod. "Dean Winchester," he murmurs, squeezing her shoulder. "My partner bought all your candles. Whole place smells of herbs, fruit, and happy thoughts or something."

She stares at him for a long moment before she nods again, lips moving soundlessly but the shape is definitely "Cas."

"Yeah, that's him." She's been to their new headquarters and hopefully, someone will be there who recognizes her. "You--you can tell something's weird about this, right?"

Wendy's shaking increases, breathing speeding up so fast that Dean starts to wonder if they're in 'pass out' territory or holy shit, a heart attack. Then she grabs his wrist, and he doesn't think he's ever see anyone work so hard to say a word. "Yes." Then, staring into his eyes, " _Everyone_."

Yeah, that's what he was afraid of, now confirmed by witch. "I'm gonna need your help. You think you're up for it?"

That look is apparently universal: _of fucking course I will_. Okay, then.

Glancing down, he sees a clipboard on the floor beside her and tries not to slump in relief; she was volunteering here, shitty luck for her, but good for him and now he doesn't have to depend on verbal. Shifting slightly to hopefully hide what he's doing, he picks it up, pen dangling from a string. Sign-up sheet, half full, a housing list, and a couple of the maps she must have collected from the new arrivals in back. Setting it on his knees, he flips the page and starts writing (and does not thank God for the fact he practiced writing with his left enough to be legible; that was Cas and fine motor control whatever): where he is, what's happening (confirmed by Wendy, he notes), how many people (he thinks) are in here, four crazies armed, and what he's trying to do. Across the top, he writes CHITAQUA SECOND STREET NOW because this is gonna be all about random chance on who gets this.

"What are you doing?" Bushmaster asks in an unsettlingly nervous voice and Dean can actually feel that shaky goddamn barrel pointed right at him and Wendy.

"Just making sure she's okay," Dean answers easily, adding a note about what to do with Wendy (get her a goddamn blanket, something to drink, Dolores or Vera, and her family in any order) before pulling the sheet free and meeting her eyes, wondering how to help her do it. Please God she takes this in the spirit he's doing it: keep it simple. Pulling up a mental image of the street, he maps the fastest and then easiest course for her. 

"Let's try this. After you go out the door, keep walking straight into the alley--almost straight, just angle it--" Oh God, try again. "Go to Second Street and give that to the first person you see. If you don't see anyone, keep going east to Chitaqua's headquarters. You've been there before for candle delivery, it'll be fine." He's not sure, but he takes the faint movement as agreement; if they're lucky, a bus will show up or people will be wandering around the street and see her and make this easy, but he just doesn't think they've got that kind of luck when it's this cold. "Go outside, go to the alley, go to Second, turn left, go to our Headquarters. Go inside and give that to whoever's closest to the door. They'll take care of you, promise. You'll be safe there." Wendy doesn't react. "Please," he whispers, leaning closer and trying not to shake her; it's not like it'll help and he's not that much of a dick. "I need help here, we gotta get these people safe, and you can make this happen. Okay?"

After a long moment, she manages to nod, and he tucks the paper inside her jacket before carefully helping her to her feet and walking her to the door himself, murmuring his instructions again just in case. "Also," he says at the end, "when you see me again, don't punch me for sounding like an idiot." 

Or for sounding like an idiot right now. Risking taking her on the porch, he puts the alley in her direct line of sight.

"Thank you. Now go," he whispers, and gives her a gentle push, watching her slow--but definite--progress off the porch and into the empty street. Then taking a deep breath, he turns around and that goddamn body comes into view again, short brown hair feathering over blue-- _brown_ eyes, eye, whatever. Why does she seem familiar? "All right," he says as he focuses on the next person, wondering if he'll ever stop smiling; a plastic rictus seems frozen to his face now. "Who's next"

* * *

Alicia waits until everyone is wearing gloves before taking out a very familiar piece of paper, much folded and creased, and spreads it out on the table.

"The _maps_?" Vera says in shock.

"The toner with which they copied the maps," Alicia says as Teresa gets up to examine it warily. "At least, best guess: Teresa, you tell me, can you infuse an emotional geas into powdery toner and use that to copy a geas to a lot of maps?"

Teresa shuts her mouth, staring at Alicia for a long moment. "How--"

"Cas's candles," Alicia says, looking pleased with herself,. "I read Wendy's notes: really cool, and Cas totally zens on them. So did I in his and Dean's room, really nice. Minty." She looks at Cas. "Kept Dean calm, too, though he wouldn't admit it. Residue sticks, too; probably why despite Chitaqua HQ probably being all infected people--except new arrivals, but they will be soon--well, Kat anyway, if the noise from our room is anything to go by--where was I?"

"Chitaqua infected?" he prompts.

"Building with a lot of well-armed people all in stages of distress," she says, looking up at him. "Most of whom fetched maps or helped the volunteers get maps, or helped hang them on the wall. Poor impulse control, shitty decision-making, and temperamental, not to mention PTSD is almost a requirement for admission to Chitaqua: we are all about repressing our fears so we can kill them."

Teresa examines--from a safe distance--the map. "Fear."

"Anxiety, nervousness, paranoia, makes you cranky and prone to stupidity," Alicia confirms. "That's why I said not competent, our creators; that geas was designed to make people run--with the timeline they were on, there was no time to fuck around. From what you said, though, our action here wasn't 'run' for no one is hysterically running in place but 'be super afraid so you will run'--very different thing grammatically, am I right?--so it hit the first button it saw and that could be anything. For us--can't prove this--our reaction isn't to run from it, but--"

"Try and destroy it." He thinks of Sean and wonders if they're lucky his particular manifestation involved a hammer and wall and not Nate's head.

"And almost invisible if you think about it," Alicia offers. "Ichabod, barrier, people: of course everyone's gonna be cranky, paranoid, and weird, and of course we think everyone incoming is crazy--they were _walking in the snow_. Until they actually became homicidally crazy, _that_ we noticed."

Castiel studies the very poor copy, much smudged and smeared from many fingers. Toner: it was on Dean's fingers and Amanda's after they touched ones they retrieved from the cars and has doubtless been through many hands at the Volunteer Center. And the teams that retrieved them as well. And every person outside the thirty mile limit who came to Ichabod, because they each received individual copies.

"That was almost inspired," he says to Alicia. "Terrible execution, but the method of distribution was very well done."

"I know," she says with a sigh. "It almost hurts: such a terrible plan and done so badly, but did they nail the part that would fuck everything up the most? They did. Think about it: we actually _told everyone_ to collect these maps from everyone coming in."

"Vera, did you ever retrieve any maps?" he asks, then glances at Teresa. "Did you?"

"No," Vera answers as Teresa shakes her head. "Infirmary duty. Though if this passes by contact or proximity, that may not mean much. I'd be--what, a One or a Two?"

"Teresa," he asks, "how many degrees do you think it's gone now?"

"That would be the question," Teresa says, eyes narrowing on the map. "Vector with toner, subject could be 'everyone who touches this' which could be literal--touch the map or the toner or simply get the affected toner on you--Christ, I hate this already."

"So how would it get to the Ones?"

"Possibly telephone in action at first degree," Teresa says with a wince. "Though--and I can't believe I'm saying this--we may have gotten lucky and this was meant to spread." She looks at them. "Honestly, if it's already telephoning at Ones--no. Hope this was deliberate."

"Just in case they ran out of maps," Alicia offers, and Teresa nods. "Or double down because not everyone will touch it, but if the person who touched it resisted, they'd have peer pressure to go from everyone they passed it to, probably their families. Like an afterschool special about the evils of peer pressure in action. Didn't see this as a consequence, I must admit. Then again," she adds, "neither did those producers."

Teresa nods thoughtfully. "Using that, everyone who touched the maps themselves--or possibly got toner on them--is going to be a Zero. That would be a lot of the adults coming in but not all--so those are our Zeros and Ones, the Ones picking it up from the Zeros either through physical touch or very close proximity and hours in a car would do it. Patrol teams who went to get maps from the cars, all Zeros; volunteers on the first couple of days, Zeros and Ones. Everyone else getting it now is going to be a One or Two and we really need to tell Volunteer Services not to touch any more maps."

"Next order of business," Alicia says. "Also, I have them all from our Headquarters in two sealed boxes downstairs. Matt and Jody wore gloves, promise."

"If we're lucky--which I doubt--there won't be that many Threes," Teresa continues, frowning. "However, we have no idea right now how many people may have broken it themselves once or even twice without knowing it and--"

"--get it again," Alicia interrupts, leg no longer kicking. "From anyone. Of course they can."

Teresa nods grimly. "These maps were all copied using the same toner, in which the geas was infused, which means I’m going to need Wendy for the examination and to get the details. Depending on how they structured the geas when infusing the toner, it could be individual--each person who touches the map gets their own individual geas; each individual map is a geas, and everyone who touches that map is part of that one geas; or this is one giant geas on everyone who touched any of the maps."

"Tell me which is worst," Vera says in resignation. "That'll be the one we have."

"I knew you were smart," Teresa tells her with a sigh. "This many people, _all of them_ are shitty options and would only apply to the Zeros anyway--Ones and up will all have their very own individual copy. The only advantage to the last one is our game of telephone would potentially be slightly less garbled and removing it from one Zero will remove it from all Zeros and we'd only have to deal with Ones and up. However, gonna be honest, I doubt that. While Claudia's not talking on exact number here, there's no way someone didn't ignore this just on sheer contrariness after touching the map, and that would have broken it on everyone before it could get to the Ones."

"Eliminate best case scenario immediately," Alicia agrees. "It's never going to be best case scenario. Cas taught us that."

"You're a credit to your training," Teresa takes a deep breath, eyeing the map. "You got a hazmat bag for that?"

"I do, Dolores had some for hazardous medical things and shared." Pulling it from a pocket, she shakes it out and sliding the map inside before sealing it shut. "Now--"

"Okay, one thing doesn't fit," Vera interrupts, frowning at her notes. "We got the why people--some people are becoming super crazy--but what about the freeze? Haruhi, Rosario, everyone in those rooms--if they're not getting their panic button hit, what's happening to them? It's happening at the same time: crazy people plus frozen people. What's the difference?"

"It's not just crazy people," Alicia says slowly, frowning at nothing. "Reaction to phobia--run away or freeze, not necessarily attack, but these people all attack. We can maybe assume these specific people are wired to fight instead of flight or freeze--which would be weird but not impossible--but then there's Haruhi. She's patrol; we're trained to react to adrenaline with fight, no flight, and so is Ichabod's patrol. So what happens if the geas didn't latch onto your panic button but you're around when the catalyst for that happens?"

"Nothing happens," Teresa says. "Just fear and freeze, nothing concrete to attack."

Alicia nods. "So assuming we're right--we are, by the way, at least I am and you're all with me--all we need to find out is what the catalyst is."

"Well, one other thing," Vera says. "How many people should know about this?"

Castiel hears himself say, "As soon as Teresa identifies what it is and what it does, everyone."

* * *

They're all the same; lights out, still breathing, but no one's--

"Shut up," he tells himself, for these days, the first sign of insanity isn't hearing voices but _believing them_ and if he has to talk to convince himself of that, where he comes from that's called _common fucking sense_.

"What did you say?" Beard asks, going from a baritone to a very alarming tenor in four words; it's everything Dean can do not to flinch, keep the same easy pace as he stops his path from the door to turn around. If sanity can be gained by exposure, he wouldn't have picked himself for the 'sane' part of that, but he's kind of all he's got.

"Stubbed my toe," he hears himself say before he has time to panic on what answer to use. That one's actually pretty good. He wonders if his mouth will be frozen in this shape forever; it sure as fuck feels that way.

Retrieving a couple of shaky teenagers--one can't even keep to her feet, and without thinking, he picks her up and grasps the coat of the other girl in passing--he starts to the door, mentally mapping Wendy's walk (not far) and then her state when she walked out of here (not good) and figures right now, that's one fuck of an epic journey and if she needs to take her time, fine; getting there at all is better than collapsing or freezing in place again. If she hasn't already, and he really needs to stop thinking about that.

Coming back in after depositing her on the porch with her friend, he's confronted by an endless sea of eyes; he can't remember how many he's taken out so far and counting the ones outside is way beyond him right now, but it's like none at all have left; he can't even see the spaces where they were. He's never going to get everyone out of here before those four lose it; the real wonder here is that they've lasted this long, and there's a dead man--a _woman_ \--brown hair, blue--no brown eyes, _eye_ \--to prove it.

And Bushmaster is starting to look really fucking twitchy: _fuck no_. "Going great," he tells them, and it's possible the corners of his mouth are about to split, no one can smile this much without the word 'Glasgow' being applicable. "All right, who's next."

* * *

Teresa freezes in the act of reluctantly taking the bag from Alicia, but it's Vera that says, "You're kidding, right?"

Alicia, interestingly, doesn't argue, simply looks at him with wide blue eyes.

"Cas, think about this," Vera says urgently. "You want to tell everyone they're under a magical geas that made them come here and is making them paranoid and crazy?"

"It's the truth," he points out.

"And make them _more_ paranoid and crazy," Vera argues. "Which I don't know if you noticed, leads to mass murder in the library and YMCA."

"We don't know what specifically triggered the attacks," he answers, though logic states a geas that causes that exact set of emotional reactions will not be improved by adding natural human reaction to knowing that's what's happening to them. "I have reasons."

"I, for one," Teresa says, crossing her arms as Alicia finally gives up holding out the bag and sets it sadly on the table beside her, "would like to know them." He also notes Alicia's foot is twitching slightly, as if in wish of more swinging.

To his own surprise, he thinks he can tell her "For one, knowledge in this case is power: knowing that their reactions are artificially induced will--just using probability--cause at least a few of them to break the geas. You said all they need is to not do it for the geas to break; all they have to do is reject the artificial feelings the geas produces."

Vera shakes her head. "It's not that easy when it comes to feelings, Cas, come on."

"I know," he answers. "I probably couldn't do it--if I have it--but that doesn't mean someone can't and they deserve the opportunity to try."

Teresa doesn’t' look convinced. "Next?"

"The attacks," he answers. "We can safely assume its related to the geas--paranoia, fear, leading to violence--but that knowledge could check their actions. As you and Dean have both told me, Vera, we can't help how we feel, but we can what we do about it."

"God, me and Dean agree on something," Vera says in mock-horror. "I'm never going to live this down."

"I never thought about it before," Alicia pipes up, and her foot is now sketching a very small swing, "but you and Dean these days are a lot alike."

This time, Vera's horror is somewhat genuine.

"Which is probably why I never thought it," she continues thoughtfully. "That fits, too. Cas, reason three."

Seeing Vera's and Teresa's skeptical expressions, he honestly doubts it's going to make any difference. 

"They're people," he says slowly, fixing his gaze on Haruhi on that bed and somehow, that makes it easier. "I won't argue the necessity of concealment when it's necessary, and I'm perfectly aware all have their own judgment on what that line must be. None of these people are in the infected zone of their own free will, they are--or have been--almost unprotected before the barrier arrived, and it certainly wasn't created for their benefit. Before they came here, I don't know who they answered to or how their leadership was structured; right now, they're in a town where the elected leader, Alison, is someone they've probably never met--those from what I understand, she's making an effort to change that--and their safety and security rests on her decisions, which everyone in this room helps her uphold. Food, water, shelter, protection: they had to--they were _forced to_ give up their own autonomy or choice of protection to come here with nothing but the clothes on their backs and place themselves in the power of strangers and they don't even know why!"

Vera and Teresa look slightly uncomfortable; Alicia simply looks at him.

"There is much we can't tell them, some of it we don't yet know, some of it they cannot know, and much they have no reason whatsoever to care about," he continues, watching Haruhi slump against the wall. "We don't even know if we can protect their lives, but we can at least tell them what brought them here, what danger they're in, and why it happened. They deserve to know that much."

"I agree," Alicia says unexpectedly. "Me, I get the risk, but--some secrets have to be kept, I get that, too. There's no rule, am I right: we're making them up anyway. This one, we don't have to keep and we shouldn't; they've been fucked over, and they deserve to know it's not their fault."

"You think Alison and Dean will agree?" Vera asks neutrally, gaze flickering between him and Teresa.

Teresa's expression doesn't change for a long moment. "If they don't," she answers, "then how do you three feel being the crazy people screaming from a corner? I call East Third. You're right, Cas; everyone has the right to know about this." Standing up, she takes the bag with a shudder. "Let me examine this first and get a couple of other practitioners in to help."

"Wendy's an expert with infusions," he says. "I would like to personally recommend her work to anyone who needs to relax and likes citrus."

"She's first on my list," Teresa assures him. "Alicia, go release Haruhi and bring her in here, would you? She'll be our useless test for how the world will respond to the truth."

Alicia grins, bouncing off the table. "Give me just a sec."

"I'll go with you," he says before Alicia reaches the door, surprising himself, though no one else seems surprised, which is odd. Looking at her through the glass, he adds more quietly, "She's had a very difficult few days."

* * *

They're all the same; lights out, still breathing, but no one's moving. Like that'll protect them if they're just still enough, no one'll notice them….

"Shut. Up," he grits out through a smile that will never stop and gets absolutely no reaction from anyone around him; so maybe that wasn't out loud? "Get up," he tells a mother, two mobile kids, and a baby in a carseat (he takes the carseat, she's barely able to stay upright) walking them to the door and outside before going back for the next, unable to remember what number he's on (fifty, five thousand, forever); it doesn't look like anyone is coming by Third or if they are, they sure as fuck aren't paying attention to what's going on around Volunteer Services. 

It occurs to him his frozen sheep outdoors may actually be a problem in getting attention; unless they say something (unlikely), people may assume they're just waiting for something from Volunteer Services. He'd like to think people would maybe wonder why they resemble statues, but at this moment, his faith in humanity is pretty damn low. 

Checking the street (no sign of Wendy, might be good or bad; a few people too far away to even risk a shout but he tries a failed wave: thanks, fuckers), he lets the door shut and starts toward the volunteers near the midpoint. Halfway there, his boot lands in something that makes a sucking, sticky sound when he lifts his foot; looking down, he blinks at the small pool of half-dried blood and follows it to the dead body, freezing in place, seeing short, dark hair and a slit of lifeless blue.

\-- _where were you, why weren't you here, why did you let them do this_ \--

Blood-matted brown hair registers, a (very) (familiar) face, and Dean's hand clenches in the edge of his coat from its creep toward his hip; it happens like this every time, he's always too late, he always finds him already dead....

" _Stop_." Cas is at headquarters; he's fine.

"It's not working," Bushmaster says flatly, cutting through the room, and Dean hears a lot of questionable shit behind each word. This is bullshit; he doesn't have time for this. "You said--"

"I'm not done yet," he interrupts, stumbling over his own gun and seeing it hit the east wall in his peripheral vision. "Just keep calm--"

"It's not working!" 

"It will!" Dean snaps, starting toward them until the barrel's flat against his chest. Meeting the glazed brown eyes, he says deliberately, "Now shut up and let me get this done. Got it?"

Looking startled, Bushmaster takes an aborted step back before stopping himself and jerking a nod. He gives the other three a long look, satisfied their trigger fingers aren't too itchy, and goes to the desk with the volunteers, looking down at glazed blue eyes and smiles; this time, it feels natural.

"Get up," he says roughly, and watches them hesitantly stumble to their feet; surely they can do better than that. "And get out of here."

* * *

Just outside the isolation room door, Castiel realizes he's staring at the door and Alicia is starting to look concerned. 

"Everything okay?" Alicia asks, hand on the knob, and taking a deep breath, he nods. 

To his lack of surprise, when she unlocks it, she steps aside with a bright smile, and he realizes he's supposed to go in first. "That's not kind."

"Trust me," Alicia says with a grin, "she'll like it in about five seconds."

Taking another deep breath, Castiel opens the door and Haruhi looks up tiredly before straightening.

"You're free to go," he says abruptly. "It's a geas, you won't die of it--we think--and while we don't know how to remove it, we will. If you feel paranoid, anxious, irritable," he starts, then looks around the room, which could very well have been designed to elicit just that, no geas required, "take deep breaths and count to ten. I have some candles that might help as well."

She nods slowly, uncoiling herself from the bed and sliding to the edge of the mattress, and he has the feeling he's not being very reassuring.

"Excellent job securing the kitchen," he tells her, wondering if that might help. "Less so without yourself within it as well."

She gets to her feet, staring at him. "Didn't do too great with the part after that."

"That was the geas, not you."

She tries to smile: it's terrible. "I don't believe that."

"We'll work on that," he says. "Get dressed and we can talk on the way to our new headquarters. Your team has a room on the second floor."

Haruhi blinks at him. "New headquarters?"

"Second Street, used to be storage, I think. It's very nice."

"The evil building?" Haruhi says in surprise. "You're in the evil building everyone hates?"

"I rather like it," he says thoughtfully. "You'll have to tell me what you think. We'll be in the isolation room next door when you're ready, and please don't forget to arm yourself appropriately; Alicia will return your weapons. I'll check before we leave."

* * *

Cowards, all of them: this time, he'll take care of this shit himself, one bullet at a time. Might be an imaginary voice, sure, but it's speaking God's own truth.

_Everyone_ , Wendy said; she was looking right at him. Everyone here, right, he got that, she didn't need to tell him that, it was obvious. So why did she. _Everyone_. Why did she....

Shaking himself, Dean blinks at the people standing helplessly in front of him--goddamn sheep can do better than this bullshit--before jerking his chin toward the door, watching his sheep scurry toward it--or drift, whatever, they really need to get their asses in gear or he might have to think of creative ways to get them going--vaguely aware something's wrong: everyone. He's missing something--or stress, and hey, he's pretty fucking stressed, thanks for asking. 

How long has it been? Feels like fucking forever.

"Get up," he tells a mother and her kid, smiling down at them until they crawl to their feet, staring at him with wide, glazed eyes. "Get out. Now."

He doesn't bother watching to see if they obey--they will--and focuses on the next person when he catches a glimpse of a pool of electric red surrounding a dark head from the corner of his eye. _No._

"What are you doing?" a harsh voice says from behind him, not important.

The sound of gunfire shatters the night (room), and he breaks into a dead run--

"Don't move!" someone (who?) screams.

\--but he already knows he was too late again. People all around him, faceless bodies with mocking smiles, but he doesn't care, maybe, maybe--

He slips in the drying blood, frantically rolling over the body, _Cas is at headquarters_ , she said everyone and she was _looking at him_.

_\--where were you, why weren't you here, why did you let them do this--_

"No." Hands splattered in blood, he turns the face toward him and sees Cas staring up at him, remaining blue eye already glazed over in silent accusation. Head, heart, stomach: like they just kept shooting even when he was dying, even after he was dead. Like it was fun for them Maybe it is: they're like that. This is what they _are_.

"What are you--"

Jerking around, he sees Bushmaster and company all looking at him, fresh blood-- _Cas's blood_ \--all over them.

Pushing himself to his feet, he takes in their expressions: no guilt, but fear, that part they got right. "Why'd you kill him this time?" 

Remington blinks at him, like maybe he forgot how words work, which isn't a surprise; it forgot you don't kill people just because they're different. Never too late to learn, though. "What?"

"Don't know?" He starts to grin and a flex of his fingers feels a knife fall into his hand, like it's always been there and he just forgot. "Wait--you knew not what you did, right? I've heard it before."

He drops to the floor as Bushmaster loses its very questionable control of its trigger finger _again_ : you'd think they'd learn, but they never do. Still grinning, he looks to see the bullet buried in the opposite wall before looking up at Bushmaster's shocked face. 

"Yeah, no." He holds Bushmaster's eyes, making a fist and listening to the sound of bone being crushed to dust, nothing left but a sack of pulped meat hanging from its wrist. Catching the gun before it hits the floor and goes off by accident--he's got some on-purpose plans here--he sends it toward the wall and takes a moment to enjoy the sound of Bushmaster screaming, face nearly purple. "Be right back," he assures Cas, stripping the bullets from all the guns just in case and throwing them with the rest. "Gotta do this first, then we'll get started, how's that sound? Wait for me."

* * *

They're almost at headquarters when Castiel stops short.

"...not really." Haruhi stops a few steps away and turns around. "Cas, you okay?"

"Dean," he answers, but it's not just that; the memory of acid pain tingles along his nerves and crawls over his skin, and it's only with an effort he doesn't wince. "Alicia, I need to--"

The flood after that doubles him over; for a minute, there's nothing but pain, and then, almost as if speaking in his ear, he hears Dean say, _Control it._

Castiel, former angel of the Lord who once wielded Grace from Heaven, brings the power born in Hell to brutal heel with a thought, and with it comes a view of a room of terrified, unmoving people, four very crazy people, and something very, very wrong. Where is impossible to work out, and he has the distinct feeling lingering here will not end well for him or Dean (much less anyone in that room). At least until he can get to him physically.

"Cas," Alicia says worriedly. "Are you--"

Where was Dean going today? "Fine."

"I'd argue," she says in a completely different voice, "but we got another problem. Straight ahead--she doesn't look too good."

Following her gaze, Castiel focuses on the woman approaching headquarters; her movements are stiff, unnatural, as if she's fighting for each individual step. 

"Wendy." 

Pushing by Alicia and Haruhi, he runs toward her and sees her stumble just in time to be there to catch her before she falls. From the bloody scrapes on her palm and both knuckles as well as the tears in the knees of her jeans, it wouldn't be the first time. The brown eyes that stare into his are glazed with utter terror, but he can see her lips move, shaping three words: "One. More. Step."

"Alicia," he says, pitching his voice in case they're too far away, "get me two teams now." Tipping her head up, he smiles, pressing a thumb against her pulse and feeling the rapid beat of her heart. "Wendy?"

Recognition is almost immediate. "Cas." 

"You're safe now," he says firmly, and watches her relax slightly. "Where were you?"

She takes a deep breath, and he sees the enormous effort it takes for her to speak. "Dean. Volunteers." Slowly, she forces up a shaking hand, and he sees the grip she has on the paper before she says clearly, " _Everyone._ "

He meets her eyes and nods. "I understand. Thank you." Looking relieved, she starts to collapse, and Castiel retrieves the paper, scanning it quickly just as Haruhi joins him.

"Cas?"

"Take this." Pocketing Dean's notes, he checks Wendy thoroughly for any physical distress and suspects it's simply exhaustion; in her state, that walk must have felt like leagues. Gently, he picks Wendy up, turning toward the door of Headquarters that's already opening to reveal Mel pulling on her jacket. "Haruhi," he says on their way to the door, "I'm placing Wendy in your charge; see she has anything she needs. Send someone for Teresa and to Dolores, but you must stay with Wendy and reassure her. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she says immediately, holding out her arms. "I'll take her. I'm ridiculously strong, trust me."

"I do," he says, and isn't at all surprised Haruhi takes her (though not easily), shifting her weight and nodding thanks at Mel who holds the door open for her.

"Volunteer Services," he says, relieved to see Amanda join the two teams (minus Andy, of course). Taking out the paper, he hands it to Mel. "There's a situation in progress on the ground floor. Did you have time to memorize the layout of Volunteer Service during your visit with Joseph?" Mel nods, passing the paper to Amanda. "Good. I'll explain what we shall do on the way."

* * *

Ignoring the other three, he focuses on Bushmaster, cutting off its scream (and airway) with a gurgling sound. Bushmaster grabs for its throat, mouth gaping for air it can't get. 

Beard licks its lips. "Dean--"

"Wrong name." Maybe he should get one, though. He cocks his head at things four. "Kneel." 

They all begin to shake, fine tremors growing in intensity with every moment that passes, and Dean's gotta give it to them, they try, but then again, they all do, and it ends the same every goddamn time. He doesn't want to wait, though--tick-tock, he's on the clock here--and shattering their kneecaps sends them to the floor immediately. Better, and the screaming's just icing; the silent room thing was getting old.

"I missed this, you know that?" A glance at Bushmaster warns him it's about to pass out: can't have that. "Breathe," he says, spreading his fingers carelessly and watching as Bushmaster gasps a few wet breaths, blood dribbling down its chin from a bit lip before half-closing his fist and splintering its ribs, slowly pulling them up through its chest in jagged splinters, matching the lacerations to the ones on Cas exactly. "Lungs are fine," he tells it over the hovering fragments of bloody bone. "There's an art to it; harder on earth, sure, but nothing's impossible. Just takes some imagination. Innovation. A good work ethic." He grins, remembering. "Just wait until I'm done with Cas; he's gonna have so much fun with you."

"Please--" one of the things whimpers, and Dean crushes its trachea and the other one's too, just in case. Screaming yes, choking on your own blood works, too, but talking, no: you'd think they'd know better. Think they'd know better than to go after Cas, too, but what can you do? They aren't worth much except in entertainment value. 

Skin a couple alive, and look at that, he has just the right knife for it. Looking down, he grins fondly at it, screaming blade honed sharp and dull both, enough to do the job and make it hurt. Made it himself once upon a time, fit to his hand and no other, shaped to any purpose he chooses for it; did they really think he wouldn't make his own? Did they think he _couldn't_?

He grins down at Beard's terrified face and vanishes the clothes; they'll only get in the way. "I'm gonna make Cas a whole new skin out of you. And I think," he says, straddling his bare chest and setting the tip of his knife just below one staring eye and starts to slide it in, "he's gonna need this, too. Glad you got two: I need the practice. Haven't done it since--"

"Dean," a voice says, and he wonders who the hell that is and more importantly, why they're talking. 

"Did I say you could talk?" he says, but for reasons goddamn annoying he can't quite shut them up; it keeps slipping by them. Looking up, he pauses and sees very familiar blue eyes. "You're dead."

"Cas," someone else says. "Do you think--"

Cas raises a hand, cutting off the words. "Hold your positions and do not fire." Holding his eyes, Cas starts toward him, dropping into a crouch a foot and a half away. "Dean?"

"You're gonna have to wait," he hears himself say, turning his attention back to the guy under him. "I'm a little busy right--"

Empty sockets stare up at him from the mutilated face of a kid almost but not quite grown up, who wanted to be a hunter. Like Dean. Like _him_. Haven't done this since....since....

Dean jerks away, tumbling to the floor, and looks down at his empty hand, bewildered; he can still _feel it_. "I've done it before." He takes in Cas--alive--and turns around to see the woman's body that's definitely not Cas. "I thought--Cas, I _saw you_. They _killed you_!"

Cas's eyes flicker to the body, but before he can say anything, Dean realizes something else: the idiot _doesn't have his goddamn gun out_. He's just crouching there and--oh God. "Cas," he says urgently. "Get a gun on me. _Now_."

"No worries," another voice says, and this time, he recognizes it as Amanda's. Looking up, he sees her coming down the stairs, sidearm in hand and trained right on his head. In his peripheral vision, he sees Mel and her team have come in the backdoor and spread out to protect the people against the north and west walls while Alicia's team takes what's left of those on the south and west sides as well as the remaining volunteers. "Had you the second I had line of sight."

Cas frowns. "Amanda--"

"Shut up," Dean snaps, eyes drawn back to Grant, but--it's not Grant. It--the guy--he just almost was Grant. Grant, Mark II: the Volunteer Services Edition. At this rate, he's gonna get a reputation in Ichabod. "Get a second gun on me, then disarm me," he says, raising his shaking hands and lacing his fingers together behind his head, hoping to God that's enough. " _Now_! That's an order!"

"I'll--" Cas starts.

"Not you." Yeah, he's _that_ kind of dick: he'll happily trade someone else's life here and now to make sure Cas is safe from him. "Please, Cas."

"I got it," he hears Alicia say, and breathes a little easier when Matt's gun comes out with a look on his face that says breathing wrong while Alicia's near him will end with a Dean-shaped splatter. Even so, he doesn’t let himself move until Alicia checks him fast and thorough, and unlike Mark, she knows to get his boot knife. 

"Mel, secure the building and send someone for Vera," Cas says, eyes on Dean as Alicia does a second check--smart girl--and takes his belt with her as well. "Dean, the people outside: your note was unclear and seemed to be missing some letters. Or perhaps words."

Dean licks his lips. "Too many people." Christ, what was he thinking: those three rooms, crowds, what? "Alicia said that everything stopped in the mess after you left. Mira said the same thing at the library--no one left, but dead probably counts, right? YMCA, reports say same thing as the library. Even in the crowds--they stopped when patrol dragged people away."

Cas nods. "Keep going."

He's either talking down the crazy guy or--just maybe--sincere. He'll take it. "Only thing in common--less people." Wow, that sounds stupid, but might as well go for broke. "First night, you--you were talking about how much space people need and math, and I started thinking about--"

"Personal space?" 

"Yes! Why not the big rooms at the YMCA and library? Or the kitchen at the mess?" Dean asks urgently. "No one felt crushed. The YMCA--it was a small room, not any of the big ones, same as the library, same as the mess, same as the middle of a goddamn crowd: a lot of people in a small space. Or maybe feels like a small space."

"Personal space." Cas's gaze moves over Dean's shoulder. "Alicia, I think we found--"

"--our catalyst," she finishes for him. "Dean, you're a goddamn genius." she adds, patting his head--she seriously just _patted his head_. "Gonna need square footage, divide by numbers, but then it's all math." She gives his wrists a friendly pat. "Hands down. Promise, I can stab you straight through the spine and into the heart if you do anything."

Something's wrong with both of them: she meant that to be reassuring and he does, in fact, feel reassured.

"Cas, Dean?" Mel asks from behind him. "Room's ours and no one's responding to us. Want us to start moving people out, see if this works?"

"Please do," Cas says. "And get a full count, including those outside, and add one for Wendy of Noak."

Dean lets his arms drop, closing his eyes. "She's okay?"

"She's fine," Amanda says and when Dean looks up, he sees her start toward--son of a bitch. He watches in horror as Jody kneels beside Bushmaster's still body as Amanda approaches Remington and Beretta.

"I killed them," he says, wondering vaguely why he can't make his hands stop shaking or why his voice sounds weird. "I--I--"

He doesn't see Cas move--cheater--but Cas is beside him, one startlingly hot hand on his forehead. "You're in shock," Cas tells him, peering into his eyes. "Someone find a blanket, please."

Without thinking, Dean reaches for Cas and hears the click of more than two safeties.

"I'm declaring Dean temporarily incapacitated due to mental coercion," Cas says calmly, pulling off his coat and wrapping it around Dean. "This is a coup, and as conqueror of Chitaqua, my orders are to stand the fuck _down_."

Cas doesn't need exclamation points; everyone has their safeties on almost simultaneously and their guns down before Dean can protest (and from their expressions, before they even realized what they were doing). He has _got_ to learn how Cas does that.

"Amanda, Jody, please finish checking those people, please," Cas continues, tucking the coat around Dean more securely and peering into his eyes. "Dean--"

"It was me." Grabbing for Cas's flannel--this time without a safety soundtrack--he makes himself say it again. "I killed them. I can still feel it in my hand! What's happening to me?"

Cas looks at him incredulously just as Amanda says, "Dean? It looks like they just passed out."

He looks at Amanda. "What?"

* * *

The final count in the room is two hundred and ninety (including Wendy, Dean, and the unknown victim), which even without a geas in play would be far too many in one room for Castiel's taste. 

Naresh's teams arrive quickly enough to take over care of the civilians, but Naresh requests that Chitaqua's teams remain on site while they remove people in case of any unforeseen complications. Ten more people are removed before the number is below threshold and it breaks. They're still inside with Cas when they all felt the snap, like a rubber band stretched too far, and Naresh doesn't pretend to listen to Dean's protestations he should be in custody and looks relieved when Castiel explains there's been a coup.

"We know where you are," Naresh tells Dean soothingly and Castiel pretends not to notice Dean's eyes fix on the suspects' weapons. "Run along now."

While Alicia and Mel assist Naresh and his teams, Castiel casually checks the guns from the four suspects, strangely unsurprised to find the clips empty. Getting up, he pretends to watch the people being led outside as he scans the walls carefully and finds a single bullet hole at the corner. Turning, he takes in the former positions of the four suspects, places Dean between the woman's body and them, and finds the angle for the headshot there is no possible way Dean could have avoided under any other circumstances. As Dean wouldn't have mentioned it if they'd simply missed. 

Dean said: _I can still feel it in my hand!_

"Cas?" Alicia says, and he turns to see her frowning at him. "Everything okay?"

"Fine," he answers, turning toward the door. "Continue your work with Naresh. I'll be at Headquarters with Dean if needed."

* * *

Dean just avoids shoving the second glass of electrolyte enhanced super healthy flat whatever that is that tastes like ass back at Vera and glares at Cas. "You're telling me it was all a dream?"

"No, we're lying," Vera snaps. "Now drink that while we form our exit strategy from town after you committed quadruple murder."

He does, because he feels like shit, one, and two, he's still trying to decide what to say if they ever get around to asking him for details on how he killed--sorry, _dreamed_ he killed them. Because he has details. So fucking many details. 

"Not a dream," Cas corrects him, lounging in a nearby chair in the makeshift infirmary that has mysteriously joined the (kind of nice) mess in Chitaqua's totally not new headquarters in Ichabod, though at this point, he gets the feeling he's gonna lose this battle. "Finish your hideous electrolyte substance, Dean."

Glaring at him from the twin bed that appeared here along with all the first aid kits from the jeep and some vaguely familiar equipment, Dean almost throws it at him, but Vera's _right there_. 

"Wendy okay?" He should have asked that first but ass-tasting electrolyte solution was a little distracting. That and Vera doing something a lot like hovering over him worriedly; the realization she was doing it, and he was letting her, was really awkward for both of them.

"She's fine," Vera answers, glaring at him until he takes another drink. "Snapped out the same time as the rest. Teresa checked her out, and her sister came to pick her up so she can get some rest."

Oh God, Lourdes. He is never getting off her shitlist now.

"She's the only witch that's been involved in one of these," Cas says. "She was able to confirm a coercive was responsible for the artificially-induced emotional response and narrowed it to a geas as well between bouts of uncontrolled terror. She also offered this: even knowing what was happening to her didn't help her break it, so the creator or creators had a very strong will and--considering the motivation they had--that's not a surprise."

"And Teresa thinks you may have broken it by...." Cas was alive, everyone was alive, and also, that guy under him wasn't Grant. Jesus Christ, Grant. "Not being dead. Cool."

"Technically speaking," Cas says, because at all costs we must be technical or something, "I acted as a catalyst for _you_ to break it; you thought I was dead, and seeing me alive was enough of a shock to shatter the geas' hold on you. Only for a second, but that's all it needed; you don't do the thing--or feel the thing, I suppose, we're still not entirely sure of the instructions--and it broke."

"Wendy say anything else? Infusion expert, right?" Seriously, they're buying all her candles forever. "Think she can do anything about it?"

"Teresa told her about the probability of it being infused into the toner, which from what I understand she took very, very personally, though whether at its existence or it being accomplished so badly is up for debate." Cas shakes his head: every so often, it occurs to Dean that Cas is, actually, a practitioner himself and he's never met a good one who didn't take the shitty efforts of amateurs well. "I told Teresa she could have all the maps in our possession. With that many, there should be enough of the toner present in one place for Wendy to pull the entire structure of the geas without too much trouble. Alison is already having Admin searched, but it took at least two toner cartridges to do this, and they probably had the sense to take any that was left over. However, I suspect Alison will order everything copied since the infiltrators arrived burned, just in case it lingers somewhere, just in case."

"Good call."

"Personal space, actually really important after all," he says, grinning at Cas. "Who knew?"

Cas smiles at him. "I didn't realize it could quite literally drive people insane this quickly, but I do feel vindicated in my concerns, yes."

"God," Vera mutters, but when Dean glances over, she's hiding a grin. "Can you two be gross somewhere else?"

"Shouldn't I be in Volunteer Services still, _sir_?" he asks Cas with relish. "So I can be questioned, _sir_?" Cas's eyes narrow, and Dean drops his voice, watching Cas's face. "What are you gonna do with your helpless former leader after conquering his domain, anyway?"

Cas shuts his mouth: yeah, that's what he thought.

"And now we're getting creepy," Vera remarks. "Roleplay is for home or interested audiences and I am neither."

"Cas couped me," Dean reminds her. "This is the real deal. I get imprisoned, right? In a nice room? No responsibilities, no one allowed to visit unless they need my help. Maybe consult me once in a while in a sticky situation you need my advice or something, and I make you give me something for it? I always wanted that job." Vera gives him a blank look. "Saw it on TV once, looked cool."

"Dean," Cas says patiently, "you're in our headquarters--"

"We're not keeping the building," because yeah, that's what's important here, the building and a fight there's no way he's gonna win. "Unless you say we should. Sir."

"--and under the supervision of your entire militia--"

"Yours, _sir_ ," Dean interrupts happily. "Coup, remember? _Sir_?"

"Don't look at me," Vera tells them, taking off her gloves. "My coup, I had the sense to put someone not me in power." Cas gives her a glare that she ignores. "Dean, you're fine. Medically speaking, anyway."

"I withdraw my coup," Cas says before Dean gets a chance to explain how he really isn't. "And reinstate Dean to his former position without prejudice and with utter relief. Vera, do you need to return to the infirmary?"

"Yeah." She drops the gloves in the trash, looking grim. "We had an emergency so had to delay Carol, but she's still stable, so we're starting an hour after dusk before anything else comes up. I'll probably crash in there after surgery's done. Dolores set up a room for me and Lewis."

Dean nods. "How long?"

"Eight hours, give or take," she says. "Probably in two parts, and I need to be on hand in case any emergencies come up. Anyone needs me--"

"We'll wait," he says firmly. "I'll send Amanda to check up and give us word on how it went and bring you dinner, okay? Eat it, I'll ask her when she gets back."

Vera smiles. "Thanks. Dean--unofficially--do me a favor and stick to headquarters the rest of today, just for my blood pressure? Everyone who's been in one of these who wasn't shot seems okay, but if this is telephone, who the hell knows. Just in case."

"He'll be here until dawn under my observation," Cas says, and with a faint smirk, she nods, grabbing her coat on the way to the door. When the door's closed, his expression turns serious. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine, and by the way, give an order that anyone sees me outside my room without you, shoot."

"No," Cas answers with a sigh. "I won't." Dean's getting ready to suggest they get out of here when Cas asks, "What did you mean? When you said you could still feel it in your hand?"

Dean clenches his right hand against the mattress and knows Cas sees it. "Part of the entire, uh, dream--hallucination sequence thing. That part lasted a little longer, I guess."

"What did you feel in your hand?"

Just a hallucination, he reminds himself: like avoiding a headshot, like crushing that guy's hand, like ripping apart that guy's chest, like choking them all to death, like not having a name, it didn't happen. It doesn't mean anything. Just like it doesn't mean anything that since that first night in Ichabod, he hasn't dreamed about Cas dying by camp or mob. He can't even remember dreaming the last few nights, come to think. 

"My knife, I think." And he really fucking wishes it'd go away already. "You ready to get out of here?"

"Of course." Standing up, he waits for Dean to slide off the twin bed. "If the pattern of the others is any indication, you're going to be tired and somewhat morose--"

"Cas," he says, then realizes they're like a hall away from the goddamn mess. "Fine, our room." So he can pass the mess, go through the lobby, and up the stairs in front of everyone.

"Excellent idea," Cas says, and leads Dean out of the room and in the opposite direction. "Back stairs."

He forgot about those. "Cool."

* * *

Following Cas to the room is so automatic that he doesn't realize Cas has stopped at their doorway until he runs into him. "What the hell?"

"Our room," Cas says in a voice that--for no reason--makes Dean think of how angels deal with 'sharing' (single combat to the death and public sex), "is empty."

Peering over his shoulder--Cas is the mountain that won't fucking let him in the room-- Dean scowls. "This is bullshit, who...." Wait, that's why that equipment in their temporary because they aren't keeping this building infirmary was familiar. "Okay, that was fast."

Cas's expression takes on a distinct 'smiting' quality. "When I find the perpetrators," he says calmly, "there will be consequences."

"Yeah, no, I--" God, it feels like forever ago. Grabbing Cas's arm, Dean tugs uselessly. "I moved us. Or exercised my power for personal gain and got other people to do it for me. Come on."

Cas gives him an incredulous look. "Why--"

"Just come on." Cas finally condescends to fake normal and lets Dean lead him back to the stairs and up to the third floor, ignoring the Office of Marble and What the Fuck and going until he finds the door to what he thinks was a conference room that shares its bathroom, and going inside, sees all their stuff--minus medical equipment, now in their goddamn infirmary, got it--and nods. "Here we go."

Cas looks around curiously and Dean lets him, checking it again himself to make sure he picked the right room. Bigger than their obviously not a partner's former office, its windows right now are of the wooden plank and duct tape variety (sealed, thank God) but will be pretty sweet when they find some glass or something someday (if they were keeping the building). Under what have to be the most hideous non-matching paisley curtain-things he's ever seen stapled directly to the wall: his recruits either are colorblind or have a sick, sick sense of humor.

He starts to direct Cas to the longest--and most hideous--set of curtains when he hears himself say, "Why didn't you tell me about Grant?"

Fuck his life, he said that _out loud_.

Cas stops just short of their neatly stacked bags, looking at Dean. "How much do you remember?"

"Most of it," he says, though he's not sure that's true. It's all images that he's kind of fighting slotting into any kind of order; those glimpses are enough, thanks. "You didn't answer my question. Why didn't you tell me?"

"You didn't remember."

"That's not a reason--"

"It's a very good reason," he interrupts, seating himself at the foot of the neatly made bed, and a part of Dean's mind can't help but think about the fact that his recruits actually _made the bed_ after moving everything up here. "It was my decision, and if it was the wrong one, I take full responsibility for it."

"Who else...." Of course. "Amanda." He tries and fails to remember any difference in her behavior around him--the New Year's, Christmas Eve, that fight with Mark....huh. Remembering her watching him from the fence, he thinks now he might get why she was pushing him so hard. "She agreed?"

Cas's expression doesn't change, not helpful. 

"Cas, come on, what do you think I'm gonna do, go beat her up? She'd have me down before I even threw a punch!"

"It was my decision," Cas says firmly, then adds, after a moment of thought, "but I did consult her as another hunter, like you, who would have shared more of your experiences. She agreed after observing your behavior that we shouldn't interfere at this time."

Weirdly enough, it's not Amanda's agreement that makes him feel better, but that Cas actually asked someone. And in this case, not just because she was a witness, but as a hunter.

"If I was wrong--"

"Dude, no idea," he admits; it's true. He read the reports, he heard about the daycare, and if that didn't trigger the memories--if it didn't even make him _curious_.... "Was it because you thought I couldn't handle it?"

"I think you can handle anything you have to," Cas answers. "This wasn't one of those things, and I saw no reason to make you."

If Dean had any idea of being angry, it vanishes then and there; that, and the way Cas is bracing himself for this to go south fast. He thinks about what he'd do in that situation, and right or wrong, he wouldn't do anything different (though he probably wouldn't have the sense to consult someone else, either). "Okay."

"Dean, you don't have to--"

"It's okay," he interrupts, and to his surprise, it is. Crossing to the bed, he grins down at Cas. "So what do you think of the room?"

Cas tips his head back, studying him intently, and Dean waits. "It's very much a room."

"It is that," Dean agrees, shoving his hands in his pockets and waits; this is a much better subject and a hell of a lot more fun.

"Walls--an attached bathroom that if we wish to use--for any of its intended purposes--we'll need to bar and perhaps brick the other door," Cas continues. "And...very well, why are we here?"

Dean fixes his eyes on those (Christ, more hideous by the second) set of curtains and waits for Cas to follow his gaze and after a moment, stand up. Fighting back a grin, he watches as Cas finds the opening, revealing the almost-entirely-tape sliding glass doors and is for no reason at all struck with the certainty this was a stupid idea.

Then Cas slides the door open and stills, revealing it's already full night, and vanishes outside. Taking a quick breath--Christ, get over yourself--Dean follows him out onto the wide stone balcony--divided from Office of Marble and What the Fuck's with a dividing wall (why? Don't even want to know)--lingering by the doors as Cas looks around Second Street. Creepy-ass building is three floors plus at attic with ridiculously high ceilings; this is the highest point on the street and no obstruction to his view east or west at all. 

"Not much of a view," he starts, and then loses words as Cas balances a hand on the stone and _fuck his life jumps up on it_. Running to the balustrade, Dean tries to work out what to do here. "What the hell are you doing?"

Straightening, Cas looks around, and while Dean can't forget terror, his expression....

"It's an excellent view," Cas says softly, pacing a few heart-stopping feet and looking around before straight down, _oh God stop that_. "And I can see people."

Dean risks a look over and firmly tells himself he misses his demon wings and not being able to fly: wow, that shit just never fucking helps. "Are they waving?"

"Yes," Cas says, waving back down before turning to look down at Dean. "I don't suppose you might change your mind--"

"We're keeping the building," Dean states helplessly. "Awesome building, no lie, and this room? Ours. How about you come down now?"

Cas drops back to the balcony like a goddamn cat and Dean can breathe again, but not for long, because Cas is _right there_. 

"I forgot this morning," Cas murmurs, cupping his face, and then Cas is kissing him and _fuck breathing_. There's just the warmth of Cas's lips, the wet slide of his tongue, and no lie, Dean could kiss Cas forever. Even the cold hand going under his shirts and spreading out against his back isn't a problem.

When Cas eases back, forehead resting against Dean's, Dean thinks of all the things he should be doing, even if he's whatevering in isolation or something and then says, "What did you say--you forgot something this morning?"

"To kiss you," Cas answers, a smile in his voice. "I decided I never want to leave our bed without the taste of you on my tongue."

Right, okay. Sure. "So when are you and Teresa supposed to do the thing with the wards tonight?"

"Not now," Cas says vaguely, already leaning in again, and Dean is laughing into the next kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: explicit torture
> 
> Mention of: past rape, forced pregnancy, bestiality, cannibalism


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to [Domenika Marzione](http://archiveofourown.org/users/domarzione/pseuds/Domenika%20Marzione) for a very informative email about the lily pad method of quickly running away from evil.
> 
> 1.) Technically speaking, yes, it's the first now, but me, I don't think it counts unless it's after dawn because I just made that up. I was taking a nap via allergies after work and it turned into six hours, I blame society or pollen, whatever.
> 
> Related: I went back and forth, but even after finally finding a place to do a cut here for sheer length, this is the longest chapter yet. There are two longer--fuck my life--but I have yet to work out how to cut them. When you read this one, you'll see why it was difficult to cut. If you're thinking wistfully on those halcyon days of yore where a chapter didn't nearly qualify as a novella, yeah, I know the feeling.
> 
> 2.) I'm still not sure when Chapter 14 will be out; either in the next two days or at the end of the month, it's basically how nightmarish it is tomorrow when we start validations tomorrow. I'll be honest; I am ridiculously tired from work and I am not a good line editor at the best of times; Chapter 12 was the worst for that and it really shows, which is the other reason I'm taking a break. Also, honestly, my Christmas is going to be great but also so much stuff to do and I figure that's true for everyone.
> 
> 3.) There are both warnings here as well as notes. Please check the warnings if you have any triggers; there's at least one person who emailed me about theirs a few months ago and i can't find the email now, so if you are that person, check the warnings please.
> 
> 4.) Also in end notes are the full measurements for Ichabod's walls, both in rhombus and ellipse form. It took me forever to pick the right equation and even longer to program it into VBA. See notes at the end for more info.

_\--Day 155--_

Dean wakes up alone.

This isn't new--most of his life, come on--but rolling over, he views the lack of Cas in his bed and doesn't like it. He remembers Cas telling him he missed his breathing when he was away at Ichabod that first time, and it occurs to him that's actually a thing; five months of his life (minus a couple of weeks early on and visits to Ichabod) have been spent with Cas sleeping only a room away, ten days in the same bed, and he does miss that, but it's more than that. They've only been here five days, but Christ, it feels like forever.

Rolling on his back, he stares up at the ceiling; it's stupid, but he wants to go home. He wants to sleep in their own goddamn bed with the squealing springs announcing any too-hard breathing, he wants to wake up to the smell of coffee and Cas resenting mornings while cooking breakfast, he wants to drag his ass to the shower and spend his first hour of the morning talking to Cas about what's going on today. He'll listen to Cas's efforts in turning their militia camp into a digital utopia with consistent plumbing while doing the dishes, look over his shoulder at the updated patrol schedule, check out the drafts for new cabins, and next week they'll start pouring the foundation for the mess, and Dean's looking forward to that.

He wants to go fix the generators, work with Sheila in auto, help finish up the repairs on the cabins for the new recruits, and help organize the new and improved armory (Cas is already thinking of an awesome new building for it; it's on their list). Hopefully before spring, they'll have the new room on the cabin built with two (2) private armories, an actual closet, and only one bed. And repaint and clean that old room into Cas's perfect library within no memories at all of two weeks being locked inside it. He's gonna break the lock on that door himself, just to be sure. Maybe the door, too.

Annoyed, he pushes off the blankets and sits up; no clock (no Cas to tell him) but it's definitely after midnight. It's also colder than he remembers, and a glance around the room shows the balcony door's open, faint orange light staining the floor and letting in all the cold air in the world.

Ignoring his chattering teeth, he gets up, hissing at the way the cold floor cuts through his socks and makes a note to find some goddamn rugs or something as soon as possible. As he crosses the room, he wonders how much longer Cas and Teresa are gonna be when a low roar--like a huge crowd--rumbles through the room. If the geas whatever is creating mobs at midnight, this just because the stupidest emergency ever. Also, he should maybe check on that.

Walking outside, he emerges into dank heat, like summer in Memphis, sticky-hot and thick and _heavy_ , but not like that at all: it's wrong. Looking up, he blinks up at the angry red-orange sky, then the charred landscape, an eternity of bare rock and desert and swamp, and stops short as he recognizes the sound of screaming. Going to the railing, he sees the Pit splayed out in all its horror before him, but it's not like he almost doesn't remember and sometimes doesn't quite not: before his eyes is a slaughter, the Pit in a war of succession unlike anything ever witnessed in Hell. They called in every favor and made deals with anyone who would listen, allowing armies to march across the borders of the Pit, but it won't be enough.

It's not enough; in the distance forms a swirling darkness, formless and pitiless, swallowing the broken sky in ebony gulps with flickers of silver like captive lightning. A frozen wind blows away the heat, and he can hear shouting below, confusion and growing fear, all eyes turned to watch an infinite storm in the Pit itself. Beneath them, the bedrock of Hell itself begins to tremble, and he grins as the screaming begins.

"There we go," he whispers, watching them try to flee that endless darkness that sweeps down toward them like great wings; when it moves on, nothing's left of them but absence. In only moments, the Pit's deserted, pulsing rock the color of drying blood paving the ground as far as he can see. If he listens carefully, he can still hear their muffled screams. "I win."

When he looks at his hand, he's holding that knife like he never stopped.

"Dean?"

Closing his hand, he spins around to see Cas at the door, peering at him in bewilderment. "Hey."

Cas tilts his head. "Is something wrong?"

Dean starts to ask what, then realizes his teeth are chattering; Christ, he should have grabbed a blanket or something. "Thought I heard something," he says, shivering (seriously, it's freezing) and nearly bowling Cas over to get back into the semi-warmth of their room and diving for the bed. "Hurry up," he says impatiently as Cas closes the door, reaching for the lamp on the stack of plastic milk crates that last he saw were being used to carry supplies in the morning. Their recruits are awesome. "How'd it go?

"Very good," Cas says, sitting at the foot of the bed and removing his boots. "We verified they integrated with the existing sigils very well, and from what we could tell, they should work to--I think the best way to put it is 'encourage them not to want to come inside'."

"Will that work?" he asks dubiously.

"It will," Cas answers. "Though for how long depends on their intelligence and determination. However, now knowing their paternal line, they should be vulnerable to that which affects Hellhounds, though how much is unknown."

"And killing them?" Dean has a feeling this is a lot more complicated than combine Elder God plus Hellhound and split the difference to work out what to do about them. "I mean, just asking: _can_ we kill them?"

Cas sighs, leaning back on one arm. "I would have preferred you asked 'can they be killed', for the answer there is obviously yes." Yeah, that's what he was afraid of. "That Winchester House and Lucifer could tell us very little other than that it's possible, not that we have the means or ability to do so."

Does he want to know? "Be specific."

"Dead flesh," Cas says, frown deepening before he looks at Dean. "Do you remember when you suspected I'd resurrected you as a zombie?" Oh yeah, that was great, thanks for the reminder. "This would be one of the only times in the history of the world that might have been an advantage, though there's no guarantee that the separation of mortal body and spirit wouldn't still occur."

So Dean maybe should regret not being a zombie? "Huh?"

"They may be a degraded form, but they're still grandchildren of Ether and born of the dead flesh in which their mother was bound; that's where their humanoid form came from. I don't know if it's possible for a mortal to kill something that on this plane qualifies as dead. I am going to test this extensively with our entire arsenal, however."

Dean carefully places all that in the category 'shouldn't make any sense but does' (a large fucking category, bigger every day) and gets down to practicalities. "So what we're doing here is just trying to keep them outside the walls until the barrier comes back up."

"Yes," Cas agrees, nodding. "That would be the plan."

Well, at least they have one. "Anything else happen?"

"I learned a great deal," Cas says thoughtfully.

"Theory versus experience?"

"Knowing the abilities and ethical restraints of a _bruja blanca_ isn't the same as understanding them." Getting up, Cas takes his boots to sit by the wall on the other side of the bed before getting one of their bags, setting it on the mattress. "She told me about her childhood training."

Drawing his knees up, Dean nods. "Weird to imagine, and yes, I do get the irony of me saying that."

Cas flashes him a grin. "It's very much like any child's, I think," he says, taking out the soft sweatpants and clean long sleeve t-shirt, which reminds Dean to do some laundry in the morning. When they get home, restructuring of the chore list is gonna happen; if he has to fight for the right to at least one meal and cleaning the bathroom and trading off laundry duty, well, it's weird, but he'll do it. "Just more structured. Teresa's abilities manifested very early--not a surprise with her bloodlines--and of course they're also hunters. Glenn and Serafina at the daycare have implemented several of her suggestions in the education of the children to prepare them for their future here." 

Dean opens his mouth to protest that automatically and then realizes he actually has no objection, even philosophically. What no one says and everyone thinks about how long they're gonna be in the infected zone aside, these kids aren't going to grow up in a world where ignorance is a given or even a luxury; what they don't know is literally going to kill them.

"Any future witches in the daycare?" he asks curiously; Ichabod so far has shown every sign being smart when it comes to survival, and a new generation of practitioners to get trained would be top of the list.

"Teresa tests them regularly with their parents' permission," Cas replies, and Dean loses a moment when Cas drops his jeans, stepping out and folding them neatly before putting them away. "Several, most recently Tony's elder daughter Dee."

Dean grins; he can see Tony's face. "What'd Tony say?"

"Asked what the chances were that she would turn him into a frog when oatmeal was for breakfast," Cas says with an answering grin, sliding into his sweatpants and then taking off the flannel and thermal before frowning into the bag; yeah, they're running out of clothes

"Just put everything in the corner," Dean advises casually. "I'm going to do laundry in the morning."

Cas performs 'blatant shock' plus "I am amused you think that" before placing the clothes in the nearby corner and getting into bed with a contented sigh. 

Then, casually, "Laundry can wait. I think we should visit the daycare tomorrow morning after breakfast."

Dean opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

* * *

He actually still doesn't remember much about what happened at the daycare between reaching the stairs and Cas appearing in the courtyard; the difference is, now he's very aware of that missing time and while he can't say he's curious or really wants to know, it's pretty inevitable that's going to happen and soon.

Grant is a special case: Dean doesn't have all of it, but the sampling gives him enough to know pretty much how it must have gone, and it's familiar in that way things are that you've done before, just not on earth but in unremembered, sometimes-remembered fever-dreams of Hell. He probably didn't have to think about it too hard, that much he's sure of; he'd done it before, many times, in many variations, and for all its apparent brutality, it was kinder than some he could have done on earth (though he suspects that was simply a lack of time to fit anything exotic in there).

He's still trying to work out how words work when Cas reaches across to flip off the lamp, because some things can't be said anywhere but in the dark.

"You know," Dean hears himself say. "I can't figure out if I'm okay with you not telling me because you were probably right, or because I'm glad I didn't know. I wish--I almost wish I didn't now." It's not almost, but Cas knows that. "Who else knows?"

"Amanda's the only one," Cas says quietly from beside him, a close, comfortable source of warmth and simple presence. Breathing, Dean thinks again for no reason; how long has it been like this anyway? He remembers telling Cas once--Christ, forever ago--he didn't have to stay and babysit every night and how even saying it, he didn't mean it, hoped to God that Cas didn't take him up on it. He sure as hell made no effort whatsoever to give Cas space to actually get around to doing it. "As far as I know, everyone assumes it was some unknown consequence of the interaction of demons and Croatoans and the human infiltrators."

Dean rolls onto his stomach, taking the time to grab a pillow to stuff under his chest before he looks at Cas incredulously. "No relation to the hunter in the daycare who just happened to take a lot of them out?" Not that he was a one-man army: every teacher, parent, and kid old enough to hold a weapon stepped up, and if Teresa's the one that encouraged Glenn and Serafina to start teaching those kids, he owes her thanks or no one would have survived. 

Everything up to the stairs is as vivid as if it happened yesterday: Emmy let a Croat eat her goddamn arm so Una and Callie could get the kids down the hall; Callie threw herself on top of one of the fuckers to buy them more time, Una and her son Clark bodily blocked the stairs; Linda was trapped in the kitchen with a Croat, locked her kids in the pantry and beat the fuck out of the Croat even as it ate her alive. Jimena and her partner Cia were ripped apart and never knew, thank God, their kids would be killed a few minutes later; Dorian and his daughter Betts; Angelique and her four year old twins, Tyler and Todd. 

Callie and Emmy kept Dwayne and three other kids in that goddamn locked room before they were taken to isolation, and now he wonders what Sissy said when they told her that her best friend and co-castle-maker wasn't coming back to help finish. What Dee said when Tyler and Todd weren't in class anymore. How the everloving fuck Jessie and Lian are dealing with losing their mother, how Sandy is with her mother and brother gone, all the family she had; how those ten kids of the infiltrators are even able to process what the fuck happened to their lives.

He can practically _hear_ Cas thinking (not like _that_ , though; at least, he doesn't think so). "You haven't visited the daycare since that day."

"I did," he protests. "When you were getting more groupies." Oh Christ, that sounds terrible. "Uh, I mean, hanging out with the kids from the church."

No need to see if Cas's eyebrow is doing anything; it is.

"If you feel guilty--"

"It's not that." Well, no, it _is_ , but that's the easy part; this is what he calls the crazy part and he doesn't know how to explain in a way that makes any kind of sense. "I'll look for them."

Cas doesn't answer, and Dean risks a glance to see he's simply waiting.

"I know they're dead," he says. "I talked to some of the parents, for fuck's sake, I _remember_...but--"

"You haven't seen where they used to be."

Dean lets out a shuddering breath. "Dwayne and Sissy were building a castle. Todd, Tyler, and Dee were best friends, did everything together. Clark wanted to be a doctor, was apprenticing with Dolores after school every day, Dolores said he was picking up everything so fast. Sandina was eight, Cia and Jimena found her in an abandoned car two years ago, and she was so smart, Cas. They adopted Kelso when they got to Ichabod, and she loved having a little brother. They just got married last spring, did you know that? Sandina got to be a bridesmaid, told me that her moms learned to sew to make all the dresses for the wedding. She wore it to school the day after I told her I bet it was pretty, just so I could see it." He swallows hard, eyes stinging. "She looked like a fairy. All that was left of it was bloody gauze when they were done."

He feels the light touch of a hand against his back, a question; when he doesn't push it away, it firms, resting warm and comforting between his shoulder blades.

"We--we thought it was over," Dean whispers, closing his eyes, but that doesn't change anything; all he can see is the daycare. "We got the kids herded into the hall with Una while Emmy and Callie carried the babies, and half of us made a perimeter while the rest of us searched the first floor for any more. We thought we got them all, should have--didn't know it was just the infiltrators and fuck, should have counted. I was in the kitchen with Lian and Jessie, told them not to leave the pantry until someone came to get them, made them promise and--I heard screaming." He licks his lips, mouth dry. "Croat--this one--it was like it was after those kids, didn't even slow down after killing anyone in its path. When I got there...."

Distantly, he can feel Cas's hand on his back, making slow, gentle circles, grounding him in the room enough to say, "Una and Clark were dead, blocking the stairs, I think, there were bodies....the kids were--" Fuck "It had Del. It looked right at me and ripped out her stomach with its teeth while I watched."

He could hear it, the wet, ripping sounds, Del's baby screams, the sight of the tiny bodies around the stairs, and that's when he put away his useless fucking gun and pulled the knife Cas gave him weeks ago, because he was done with this bullshit.

It stops there, everything going uncertain and vague again, but that was more than he had before, and he's not grateful for that. He could have spent the rest of his life happy if he couldn't remember what it sounds like when a baby screams.

"I killed the two who were still human," he says without regret, looking at Cas and seeing nothing but the same satisfaction he felt then and still does. He never took a human life like that before, but he didn't hesitate, point blank range while they cried and begged for mercy. What Alicia said about them doesn't change that; if anything, it confirms it. There are some trades you just don't make, some things you don't do, some things you shouldn't even be able to think--and they did all three. That they weren't happy about it doesn't change the fact that they still did it, and it sure as fuck doesn't change the roll call of the dead.

"Grant wanted to be a hunter," he hears himself say, and Cas's hand goes still. "It possessed him to use him against his own family and friends, killed a few itself and planned to help kill those kids from the church. I...." He makes himself say it. "I don't regret anything I did to it." He makes himself say it. "Today, the totally didn't happen hallucination thing--"

"A hallucination induced by a geas," Cas supplies, in case Dean missed that part or something.

"And last time it was 'goes crazy'," Dean says deliberately. "What's it gonna be next time? I slipped and fell on someone with my knife out? How many times does it take before this goes from 'weirdly specific random ass chance' to 'pattern, I have one'?"

"What do you think is happening?"

That would be the question. "I was hoping you'd tell me." 

Cas looks at him for a long moment before closing the small amount of space between them and appropriating half of Dean's pillow, cheek pressed against Dean's arm. "I regret those four people in Volunteer Services survived." 

Uh. "What?"

"They shot at you," Cas explains, resting his chin on Dean's upper arm, close enough he can feel the warmth of his breath. "They could have killed you--"

"They were fucked up by the geas," Dean starts to argue and realizes in horror not only did he walk into that one, Cas didn't even bother with making an effort in subtlety for the analogy. "That's not the same thing."

Cas nods, looking very patient, like he could wait here all night for Dean to explain just that. Which-- "You don't think--"

"No," Cas answers firmly. "When you start indulging in sadistic forms of torture for entertainment, I'll worry, but until then, I reserve the right to think it is highly unlikely that you might potentially--while in your right mind, in control of your own actions, not under the influence of what appears to be a very powerful and terribly designed geas, or not watching a Croat kill children in front of you--become a very specialized serial killer."

"'Unlikely'?"

"I would have used the word 'ridiculous'," Cas offers, "but I was trying to be sensitive to your feelings."

Because Cas. "You're a dick," Dean tells him before closing the tiny space between them for a kiss. It still feels electric, just to be able to do that, so he does it again before pulling back to just look at him. "What's on the agenda for morning?"

"Breakfast, verify the shift schedule, adjust for any unforeseen difficulties or changes, update everyone on the probable forms of the Misborn--"

"Not visit the daycare?" Dean interrupts a little snottily.

"Not until you're ready," Cas says, fingers sliding up and down his spine. "It's not a test--"

"Where have I heard this before?"

"It's a pleasure, or should be." He hesitates, mouth tightening briefly. "When I accused you of preferring Ichabod to Chitaqua, it didn't occur to me that part of that was the presence of children. You enjoy their company very much, and I forgot that." Cas shrugs, a lift of one shoulder. "You have very few pleasures here," he says quietly. "Spending time with the children is one of those, and I don't want you to lose it."

"Dude, there are lots of things I enjoy." Cas's expression is carefully non-committal but whatever. "You know what I was thinking before you got back?"

Cas shakes his head.

"How much I want to go home," he admits. "I'm starting to miss our goddamn bed, and I'm pretty sure one of those goddamn springs is trying to break my back." Cas's eyebrows jump. "Mess, new addition on the cabin, figure out where to put your garden--and hey, while we're here, let's grab some gardening books or something. Ask Alicia with her magical library book powers." He grins at Cas. "And you're not so bad, either."

Cas rolls his eyes but Dean can feel him smile when he kisses him. "Let's get some sleep," he murmurs, wishing to God he meant that euphemistically. "I'll get breakfast, okay?"

Lifting his head enough for Dean to roll over, he waits for Dean to extend an arm before settling against his shoulder. "You're setting a terrible precedent," he observes sleepily. "Breakfast in bed two mornings in a row: I'm becoming spoiled."

"You could use a little spoiling," Dean decides, eyes falling closed despite himself. "We're gonna work on that."

* * *

Luckily, the shift change is an hour after dawn, which gives Dean plenty of time to get breakfast from Brenda and Brit in the mess and enjoy the sight of a rumpled, sleepy Cas having an intimate moment with his first cup of coffee in the morning, which is a legit argument for why Dean needs to man up and start getting his ass up at dawn (sometimes). Leaving Cas to shower, Dean briefs the team leaders on what the Misborn may look like and what their probable vulnerabilities as well as verifying everyone knows about the geas.

Alicia, James, Damiel, and Lee are assigned with their teams to the checkpoints until the noon shift change while Mel and Christina do wall duty. Ana, Kamal, and Sarah are going straight to bed and do not pass go (except breakfast, that they're allowed to do), and Joe has a check in with Alison and _then_ goes to bed because yeah, Dean does know he's been moonlighting with the volunteers helping organize refugees.

"And Sean," Dean says in relish, because irritable due to maybe-geas isn't an excuse, "your team's on Alison-watching duty today."

Sean's face drains of color while Christina and Alicia grin maliciously, so he feels good about this. "Anyone seen Amanda this morning?" She's been overseeing making teams out of the non-patrol members and recruits, and now that all of Chitaqua's here, she's going over basic patrol and checkpoint protocol with them before sending them out.

"She stayed with Vera at the infirmary after she went off-duty," Sarah says colorlessly, dark blonde hair in a severe braid and looking like she's never in her life experienced an emotion and isn't even curious what they're like. "She left word at front desk she'd be back this morning with any updates."

"Good. Any questions?" He looks around, noting Kat and Andy are exchanging looks of yearning and regret at their tragic separation for the call of duty (or something). "No one does doubles at the checkpoints; we have four hour shifts for a reason. We can't risk tired people out there as first responders with people who may be under a coercive, and we really can't risk that in combination with any of _us_ affected by the coercive. Also, the barrier's coming down, so if you need something else to worry about, there's that."

"What are the chances we have it now?" Mel asks neutrally.

"Assume you got it," Dean answers honestly. "Physical contact or proximity can do it and most of you have had that much." He just avoids looking at Andy and Kat, who according to Alicia had a very audible reunion in their room yesterday. "Teresa, Wendy, their apprentices, and a couple of others are working on pulling the exact instructions, but Teresa says at this point, we could all be playing telephone, and no one's gonna win if we're not careful. Now, catalyst situation procedure. First rule: if you're affected, don't panic. This is artificially induced, it's meant to fuck with your head; if you can tell it's happening, your only job is not to make it worse by giving it more fuel.

"Which leads us to rule two: if you are the five percent crazy, see rule one and disarm yourself if you can. I know it's not as easy as it sounds; this is artificial but it sure as fuck feels real. Rule three: if you're five percent and something happens, when it's over, you disarm yourself, follow the instructions of whoever is handling the situation, and wait for me to get to you. I'll be there the minute I hear about it."

There's a brief, uncomfortable silence. "And what happens then?" James asks quietly.

"I'm going to tell you the same thing then as I am right now," he answers. "It's not your fault."

Searching their faces, he fights back a sigh; surprise (not really), not one of them believes him.

"Here's some context," Dean starts. "Wendy is a fully trained witch and her formal apprenticeship required learning about coercives and how to break them both in theory and practice. Until the catalyst situation in Volunteer Services, she didn't even know she had the geas, and despite the fact she knew what was happening to her, she couldn't break it. This isn't about willpower and can-do; this thing was designed to get an entire state here in under a week and _worked_. People left everything they had, packed up their families, and _ran_ because of this. They were willing to walk for _miles_ in a goddamn snowstorm; it was meant to be hard to work against, and it's hitting us the one place we can't fight; how we feel."

"You broke it," Lee says, cocking his head curiously.

"It's simple to break," Dean agrees, noting Joe's furtive glance toward the door. "All you have to do is not believe what you see, hear, and feel: simple. That doesn't make it easy. A lot of people have probably broken it, but there's no way to know what will until it does; this is personal to you." He looks around their face before taking a breath. "Rule four: shoot to kill is last resort, and I do mean last resort. Use everything you know; that fails, you have an imagination, use it, too. I don't mean just civilians; I mean each of you. You work together, you train together, and you can't tell me you don't know how bring down your own without killing them. Got it?"

This time, the nods are more certain.

"Good," he says, relaxing. "You're back at noon; check in at front desk and see if there's been any changes to the schedule. Dismissed. Joe? You have a minute?"

Joe, who is looking toward the door again with what is unmistakably an anticipatory expression, jerks his gaze back to Dean in guilty surprise. Oh yeah, this is gonna be interesting. Watching the other members of Chitaqua's patrol clear out, a couple share amused grins when they look at Joe, which just confirms Dean's instincts are spot-on.

Reluctantly, Joe crosses the now mostly-empty lobby. "Yeah?"

"Haven't seen you much recently," Dean says brightly. "Wanna catch up, see how you're doing. Wanna do breakfast?"

Joe's _face_. "Uh, well...." He trails off, eyes narrowing. "You're fucking with me."

"I am," Dean agrees, crossing his arms and looking ostentatiously toward the door, utterly delighted when Joe turns desperately toward it. "Made you look. Who's coming by anyway?"

Joe glares at him. "The co-conspirators for my coup. All your lieutenants are doing it these days, didn't want to be left out."

"Promise?" Over Joe's shoulder, he sees the door open and an unfamiliar woman-- _of course_ \--comes inside, curly brown hair tucked up under a thick green stocking cap that looks warm and hand-knit, which Dean notes down for future trade purposes, and wearing a matching green scarf. Unbuttoning her plain grey coat, she looks around hopefully, tugging off the hat before she sees them. "Hey, Joe?"

Joe opens his mouth and then closes it with a sigh. "She's here."

"Introduce me," Dean says smugly. "Or I introduce myself and dude, who knows what I'll say?"

"Fuck you," Joe mutters, turning around and walking toward her with what is unmistakably one fuck of a bounce in his step. Dean knows from camp gossip (lifeblood) and Joe's drunken conversation that Joe hasn't been into the commitment thing with anyone, but he's showing every sign of reviewing that decision right now. Taking the woman's coat, scarf, hat, and gloves, he says something to her before she nods firmly and leads her to Dean, giving him a warning look over her head that Dean blatantly ignores.

"Dean, this is Mariamne," he says, and Mariamne smiles at him, extending one work-hardened hand, brown eyes warm and curious. He likes her already. "She's been acting rabbi here for the Jewish contingent. Mari, this is Dean."

"You make us sound like an army," she tells him, shaking Dean's hand firmly. "We are, actually. Ancient Judea was famous for its soldiers: best mercenaries in the world. It's nice to meet you. Joseph's told me a great deal about you."

"Jewish history major," Joe says with a sigh that does shit to hide his admiration. Mariamne looks up at Joe with a mischievous smile, and oh God, is Joe _blushing_? "We're meeting for breakfast. She and Aaron want to do the whole formal training thing, so I've been studying with them when I'm off duty when I can get over there."

Oh yeah, that's totally what Joe is doing. "It's great to meet you," Dean says sincerely. "Joe, put her and Aaron on the list at the front desk so you can meet them here if you can't get over there." Letting go of Mariamne's hand, he tips his head toward. "Joe's been officer on duty pretty much anytime I'm not here. Great at his job."

"Oh God," Joe mutters as Mariamne bites her lip.

"Can hunt, too," he adds sincerely, nodding. "Animals and monsters. His record for squirrels is--"

"Please, Dean," Joe begs.

"--unbeatable," Dean continues ruthlessly. "You kids get breakfast and have fun, you hear me? Joe needs to relax a little, I've said it before."

"You've never said that," Joe counters, clutching Mariamne's outerwear like it's the only thing keeping him from going for Dean. "Mari, you ready?"

"Sure," she answers, nodding at Dean with another smile. "Thanks, Dean."

"Hope to see you again," Dean answers enthusiastically, ignoring Joe's hateful glare as they start toward the front desk, where Joe hangs up Mariamne's coat and sets her hat, scarf, and gloves on the shelf above like they're major religious artifacts. Satisfied with helping the course of true love (yenta, just like in the _Torah_. Hey, he should ask Mariamne about that), Dean goes to the Situation Room.

He barely has time to go through the reports he's ignoring and look resentfully at Cas's laptop before there's a knock on the half open door. "Dean?"

"Hey." Her expression isn't encouraging. "Everything okay?"

Coming inside, she shuts the door, and he waves her to the couch, taking the seat beside her and wishing he'd remembered to grab more coffee from the mess for the pot in here. "What happened?"

She swallows. "One of the shooters from the library ate a bullet an hour ago."

Christ. "How'd he get a gun?"

"Tackled one of Naresh's people and blew his head off before anyone could stop him," she answers tonelessly. "That's the first success, but there have been at least five attempts as they come out of shock and realize what happened."

He nods, looking at the helpless slump of her shoulders. "What else?"

"I touched the maps," she says quietly. "I was at the infirmary with Vera most of the night and every time I went in the ER, I tried to count how many--we don't even know the threshold number of people yet that sets it off, but anything greater than one--paranoia is part of it, right?" She looks at him, mouth trembling. "Vera thought I was crazy when I disarmed and made her hide my weapons, but I couldn't risk...."

"Very sensible of you," Cas says as he comes in the Situation Room carrying three thermal cups, hair still wet, and despite the very serious conversation happening, it's an effort not to stare. Or keep staring, anyway. "Evelyn said you'd checked in but came straight here, so I thought you might like coffee."

She smiles up at him, taking the cup. "Thanks."

"Thanks," Dean says belatedly as Cas hands him the second cup with a significant look. "I got distracted before I could get more for here."

Seating himself on the arm of the couch by Dean, Cas sips from his own cup before asking, "How did Carol's surgery go?"

Amanda grimaces. "Vera did the repairs, but--she didn't say it, but she's pretty sure Carol's going to lose the leg." Sitting back, she looks at the thermos. "It gets worse. Part of the reason Vera wanted to try the surgery first is the risk when trying to amputate that high on Carol's thigh when there's almost no room for a stump. Dolores has only done a couple of amputations, both below or at the knee, and this--it might be safer to take the whole leg."

"Hip disarticulation," Cas says, adding for Dean's benefit, "That removes it from the joint itself at the hip."

It takes no effort at all for Dean to get what that entails. "That's _safer_?"

"In this case, yeah." Amanda swallows. "Before Carol went under, she refused consent for amputation, and honest to God, with that on the table, I'm not sure I blame her."

"She'd be alive," Dean argues without meaning it; every inch of his right arm that he can't feel reminds him just how close he came to losing it, and back then, if he'd been asked (or in his right mind enough to ask), he isn't sure he wouldn't have given the same response.

"It's not just her leg--or it is," Amanda says, shaking her head. "The town she came with? She's been with them since she left Chitaqua, protecting them. Including from us, so whoever got that town while on patrol might want to have it confirmed fuck yes, it was personal."

He wonders if that is supposed to be comforting or not. "Any of them talk to her--"

"She won't see anyone, and if her leg wasn't on the line, I'd be having a talk with her about how she's treating Vera," she answers evenly, and Dean makes a note to talk to Vera, soon. "Some people never change, and surprise, Carol is exhibit A."

"What about Andy?" he asks. "They were involved, right?"

"Good idea, if Kat doesn't get weird," Amanda agrees, rolling her eyes. "There's a reason he hasn't visited yet and the reason is a three letter name I just told you."

"Seriously? That was what--two years ago?"

"Feelings," she answers succinctly, wrinkling her nose. "I'll talk to Andy when they ge4t back at noon; this is more important than a two year old breakup by way of abandonment. Anyway, I have the adhoc teams to organize this morning, shouldn't take more than an hour to brief them. Anything you need me for?"

Dean looks at Cas, who shrugs as he takes another drink from his cup. "Claudia sent over a list of needed skills, so I'll be spending the morning matching with those of us available. I'm meeting with Alison at noon for lunch for a few exercises; Teresa told me last night she's having problems with this many people in such close quarters."

Dean cocks his head. "Stupid question: isn't there a way for her to turn it off or something? Just for a little while, I mean?"

"That's what she's doing now," he answers. "The dam metaphor would not be inapplicable here, and considering she still hasn't reached her threshold, I doubt there will ever be a time she can block for more than a few hours, perhaps days at best. If it had begun earlier and her mind grew with it, it may have been possible, but there's no way to know for certain. This may require a more technical solution, but I'm not sure yet on the advisability." Before Dean can start to wonder what that means, Cas asks, "Do you plan to leave headquarters today?"

"Yeah," Dean says without thinking and doesn't even need to see Amanda perk up to know he's fucked. "You're kidding, right?"

"All the other teams have important work to do," Cas says reasonably. "Amanda qualifies as at least team by herself."

"Thank you," Amanda tells him, grinning at Dean. "Give me an hour, I'll have the kids sorted out and update Cas before we hit the town. You anywhere before then...."

"What?" he asks challengingly, which qualifies as even stupider than answering Cas's question.

"I'll re-enact the Kat-Andy reunion in the middle of the goddamn street with you," she answers, sitting back smugly while he stares at her in horror. "Run down the street with my hair flowing behind me and jump passionately into your arms in front of as many people as humanly possible."

"I'd like that recorded," Cas says thoughtfully. "Also, if you plan to be on the wall, please go fully armed to set an appropriate example for the recruits. Amanda, I'll want to check them before they leave today. Haruhi's back on duty with Rosario?"

Amanda nods as she gets to her feet. "I'll come get you for the shock and awe and better have all your ammunition or God help you treatment," she confirms as she starts toward the door. "Not kidding, Dean. Can cry on command, too."

Dean waits until she's out the door before looking at Cas. "Really?"

"Speaking of appropriate armaments," Cas says, standing up, "we should go see to yours as well."

Dean just misses stupid moment number three as his brain catches up before he can protest he can arm himself. Who the hell would say that? "Good idea," he agrees quickly, finishing off the cup because they have only fifty-nine minutes now. "Let's do that."

* * *

Considering the number of people who are making an effort to find something necessary to do that requires being on the wall, Dean doesn't think he can be blamed for taking the time to come up here for totally professional reasons (like it's a goddamn awesome wall and who the hell doesn't want to be up here). The twenty-four foot elevation gives a fantastic view of the countryside, the sun sullen even this late in the morning, though the view of the only working road into Ichabod is still a little iffy due to the twists and turns of what was once a county road that supported two lanes only in theory. 

Barely more than individual blobs as they make the rise, he watches the arrival of another shivering group of survivors. To conserve gas and speed up the relay, the buses drop people off at the base of the hill into Ichabod, where one of Dolores' people has a triage station for injuries, and Glenn's got one of the new teachers, Kishore, handling any incoming kids; the elderly, disabled, anyone injured or in need of medical help, and kids six and under with one parent or adult guardian are driven up. For everyone else, it's about a mile walk, but they're clearing the snow as much as they can to make it easier, and final stop before Ichabod is at the ward line, where there are two groups of volunteers: one gets information from those incoming while the other watches the ward line as people start to cross.

Inside the now-existing gate, they'll be escorted to the YMCA on Fifth (since the old Volunteer Center is sort of a crime scene) to be handed off to the endless volunteers from Ichabod to have a check with whoever from Dolores's staff is on duty while someone desperately searches through the available space in one of the cleared buildings to send them when they're done. 

Automatically shifting his rifle, Dean rests his elbows on the battlements; this is the third arriving in the last couple of hours. "Amanda, how many buses are running right now?"

"Two between Ichabod and Checkpoint A, one between D, C, and B to A," she answers, joining him to observe proceedings. "The groups coming in are a lot smaller, so turnaround is hourly now to save gas."

"I'm trying to decide if that's good or bad," he admits, thinking of space, the sheer miracle that food hasn't run out, and other than the situations, no real problems with the incoming people. Which admittedly is at least partially exhaustion, partially the number of refugees who are also volunteers and busy working with patrol, on one of Tony's crews getting buildings fixed up for occupation, and probably more than a little the fact that Naresh has his teams assigned to every street and in all the buildings with a large population of people. The number of those has increased to five: the YMCA, the library, and the bank on Third that was Gambling Central on New Year's, have been joined by the newly cleared movie theatre on Fourth and as of this morning, a massive two story picture frame manufacturing building on Seventh. It was originally marked yellow-orange due to a lot of missing roof, but that was before Tony had legions of volunteers at his beck and call (all with visions of not sleeping on the street, on a guess), and with their help, they were able to patch the roof enough for occupation, clear most of the equipment out, and even get it partially on the grid.

The latest problem is finding enough sleeping bags or even bedding, since beds are officially a fantasy and any new cots earmarked for the new infirmary in the YMCA. (He also knows that most of Chitaqua is sleeping on the floor and are sharing sleeping bags and bedding between shifts, all excess appearing as if by magic in the YMCA.) From what Dolores said when he and Amanda stopped by, it'll handle first aid, minor injuries, and those with medical conditions that don't require much beyond medication or checkups now. Claudia may not be giving out numbers (though he's pretty sure Alison's lying through her teeth and knows exactly how many people are in her town and Lanak as Supply Dictator definitely does), Dean can do basic math, and he'll be deeply surprised if the town of Ichabod isn't hosting more than one hundred and fifty thousand at this point and that's low-end. 

Right now, over half of Kansas is inside Ichabod's walls. Jesus Christ.

Shaking himself, Dean turns his attention back to the new arrivals, watching them slow down even more as they approach the ward line and waiting volunteers. Probably tired (can't blame 'em, just thinking about that hill makes him tired) and pretty much like the last two groups that came in, but....

"Hey," he says, pushing off the battlements (he loves that word), "let's get down there."

"Huh?" Amanda jerks her attention from the view--which he's gotta admit is pretty damn awesome--and looks at him in surprise. Behind the new arrivals, he sees a patrol team just making the hill, and even from here, he can tell they're Chitaqua; it takes him another second to identify the one walking a little ahead of her team as Alicia.

"Come on," he says, already on his way to the nearest ladder. Turning, he starts down, glancing up to see Amanda just above him, and then concentrates on getting to the ground.

He's halfway to the gate when Amanda catches up, but to his relief, she doesn't ask him anything as they dodge between groups of people. By the time they go out the open gate, Dean's beginning to wonder if he's going crazy. Slowing down, he takes in the scene--new arrivals, volunteers, patrol team--trying to figure out what bothered him.

"Thirty this time," Amanda observes neutrally as she falls into step beside him. "Look better than the last few groups."

They do, though the scale for 'better' is pretty shitty; bundled up in coats and the occasional hat, they're gathered in a tight knot against the occasional biting breeze. Pinched looking faces, some reddened from the wind or the walk, stare with the blank acceptance of people who don't know what the hell they're doing anymore and are just going through the motions at this point. It's not, he reflects, an unfamiliar look, nor the way they pause, huddling closer together well as the volunteers approach; being offered sanctuary doesn't necessarily mean you trust those that offered it.

"Alicia doesn't look too good," Amanda adds in a different voice, starting to frown, and following her gaze, he has to agree; shoulders slumped, the frantic energy he associates with Alicia is gone, and the fact her team is following at a careful distance says something's wrong. Considering it's still a couple of hours until the noon shift change, he's going to say something pretty bad. 

They're halfway to the ward line when he sees one of the volunteers break from the others, circling around the waiting group and straight toward Alicia. 

"Son of a bitch," Amanda breathes followed by the unmistakable motion of her hand dropping to her gun barely aborted. "What's Micah doing out here?"

Stiffening, Dean tries to get a look at the guy's face, but all he has is an impression of a neutral colored hat and dark hair around a pale, indistinct blur, the thin, rangy body lengthening its stride in a definite course to intercept Alicia.

"Let's find out." Keeping half his attention on the new arrivals--the volunteers are starting to realize coaxing may be on the agenda unless they want to stand here all night--Dean starts toward Alicia, Amanda on his heels. As they get closer, Dean can just make out her expression, and something tells him this is gonna be shitty news. "There's no way Manuel approved him out here."

Micah raises a hand, shouting something that Dean can't quite hear, but Alicia stops short, straightening so fast he almost hears her spine pop as she turns sharply. He can't see her face, but her left hand drops to her side, and he sees she's removed her glove, fingers flexing before curling in around something that glints dully as it slides down her palm, sharp tip suspended just behind her first finger. 

Okay, there are bad breakups and then there's--this.

"What's her range?" Dean asks as Micah says something else, fighting the urge to start running as he mentally measures the distance between Alicia and Micah: forty feet.

"Depends on what she's carrying," Amanda answers, still matching his pace, and he remembers how casually Alicia flipped that knife between her fingers, callused fingertips and the network of scars that were as good as a warning. "Fifteen feet, she can break his ribs and hit his heart with most of what she's got. I've never seen her miss when she meant it."

"She's not gonna--"

"Yeah, she is," Amanda says shortly. "That's why she's using her left."

Where the angle of her body hides it from Micah. "Handle it."

"Got it." Lengthening her stride, she starts toward them, but a sudden ruckus among the new arrivals draws his attention. As a couple of the volunteers reach them, motioning them forward, one of them touches the woman in front. Abruptly, her head snaps up, looking surprised before jerking away. Stumbling backward, she nearly falls into the people behind her before scrambling for her feet, looking around with a desperate expression.

He doesn't even realize he's reached for his gun until he feels the hilt slide into his hand, thumb hovering over the safety as he measures the sixty feet between him and the new arrivals as their passive resistance to the volunteers' urging starts to look a less passive. There's shock and there's fear and then there's twenty-nine people who came all the way here and suddenly refuse to move, and one who's starting toward Micah and Alicia.

Micah raises a clenched hand then abruptly drops it, eyes widening at something beyond Alicia before he backs off a couple of steps and starts toward the ward line. Dean checks (nothing) and has just enough time to wonder what the hell before the woman stops short, visibly shuddering as her expression changes, mouth twisting up into a hungry grimace before darting toward Alicia in a burst of speed, eyes filled with inhuman, mindless hatred.

Son of a _bitch_. "Alicia! Down!" he shouts, taking aim, but Matt and Amanda are both a hair faster, taking the shot just as Alicia drops flat, rolling out of the way when the Croat stumbles, having lost half its head. Rolling to her feet as she draws her gun, Alicia kicks its knee with one foot to push it farther away and blows off the remains of its head, skipping backward from the spray of blood and bone.

"Close the gate!" Dean shouts as he starts toward the new arrivals, dangerously still for people who just saw a Croat attack go down only a few feet away from them. From the corner of his eye, he sees a few of the volunteers closest to the ward line break for the gate, but the rest are still staring at Alicia in surprise, and fuck, they should know better. "Get back!" he yells helplessly as he changes direction to get between the ward line and the gate, scanning the new arrivals and hoping to God he's wrong about what's coming next.

He's not.

The groan of metal and wood as the gates start to swing shuts cut through the unnatural quiet, and like the sound was a catalyst, everything happens at once. Baring his teeth, one of the men suddenly leaps toward the nearest volunteer with a screech of rage while three others dart past him and head straight toward the people still standing at the ward line. As the Croats close in on them, a couple seem to remember they have guns, hand fumbling at the holsters, but it's too late; teeth bared in a snarl, the first Croat tackles him across the ward line, ripping out his throat with his bare teeth as the wards flare up in a ten foot high sheet of eye-searing sparks bright enough to pass as fireworks.

Dean's first shot hits the Croat in left temple; it barely rocks him, one good eye glaring at him despite the loss of half its face as it climbs to its feet. Holding his ground, Dean keeps shooting until the Croat finally stumbles, collapsing less than six feet away and writhing helplessly on the ground from more bullets than any human body should be able to survive. 

Darting forward and switching to the rifle, he tunes out the fighting at the ward line as Alicia's team and Amanda join in, the screams of the dying volunteers as they're ripping apart as casually as a toy by a careless kid punctuated by gunshots, Amanda's voice calling commands to Alicia and her team, and concentrates on the ones crossing the ward line toward Ichabod's walls. The only thing he cares about is the Croats in front of him and the gate behind him, listening for the sound of it closing, and that's not yet.

Croats are like the shittiest video game villain ever; you shoot and you shoot and eventually they go down and might even die, but killing is for later; right now, stopping them takes priority. Darting back each time, he knows the wall's getting close by the rise in volume behind him, and he hears the unmistakable sound of the giant doors closing just as his back hits something solid. Lining up his last shot, he fires, and five feet away, the Croat goes down with a wet gurgle, chest splayed open. 

Swallowing, he realizes that's the gate behind him, and it's closed. Right. Time to clean up.

Pausing long enough to get in a last headshot as he starts toward the fight at the ward line, he thinks it's stops moving, but he can't stop to check because another one abruptly breaks away with a burst inhuman speed despite the fact his jugular's pumping blood into the air with every step he takes. Flexing his hand, Dean ruthlessly suppresses the tremor as he takes aim, hyperaware of the grimace of barely-checked rage twisting its face into unrecognizability before he shoots it, counting down the last bullets in his head and watching in relief as its head dissolves in a spray of blood and bone five feet away, body falling over with a meaty thud.

Lungs burning, he ignores the twist of pain up his wrist and burying itself in his elbow as he scans the ground to the ward line, breathing a sigh of relief as Alicia coolly shatters the knee of the last Croat standing with a well-placed kick, its bloody fingers just short of her throat. Stomping down on its chest, Dean hears the crack of ribs drowned beneath the high-pitched scream of rage before she jumps back for the headshot and skips back another step to avoid the spray of bloody bone and brain.

Jogging up to the ward line, he nods at Amanda's tired thumbs-up as she reloads while Alicia and her team fan out in a loose circle around the bodies, guns trained on the group as they carefully kick over the Croat bodies, checking for any signs of life. A few are still moving, but from the look of them, it won't be for long.

Thirty Croats, and he took out seven of them himself; lightheaded, he wonders if Cas was watching. A little flicker from that place in his head tells him yeah, he definitely is. Weirdness is awesome when it shows off how he's kicking ass out here.

Keeping his rifle out and ignoring the ache of his palm--the weight is definitely a problem he'll have to think about--Dean tries not to notice the flashes of familiar faces among the volunteers gone still or worse, not still at all when God knows they should be if there was any justice left in the world. Joining Amanda, he reloads the rifle before stretching his hand carefully, relieved to see no tremor yet.

"Everyone okay?" he asks, more from the need to say something than anything else. Everyone's on their feet, and the splashes of blood seem to be exclusively Croat related and nowhere dangerous, but despite that, he relaxes at the chorus of 'yeah' in response. 

Sliding the rifle back over his shoulder, he finds himself staring at the people spread out before him, his mind stuttering to a stop when he tries to think of what comes next. Most are dead, but most isn't all; a few are still breathing, clinging to life despite the fact that life's gotta be nothing but pain right now. Beside him, Amanda's wearing an expression he doesn't want to recognize, and from the other side of the bodies, Alicia's looking at him for an order he doesn't want to give.

"They're not contagious," he says; exposure is a given, and Croat is one hundred fucking percent contagious. "Not yet."

"Even if we could risk opening the gate right now--"

"No." His hand itches, palm flexing against his gun; they can't risk it until they know it's safe, he gets that. "This isn't what we do."

Like someone just turned up the volume, he can suddenly hear the faint, airless screaming from throats too raw to even make the sound, interspersed with breathless pleas and prayers and agonized moans. 

"If we don't," Amanda says quietly, "who will?"

Forcing himself to look at them, he fights down nausea at the sight of what a Croat feeding looks like on a still living body; a few Croats died with their teeth still buried in someone, and a few are still alive to feel it. He can't imagine how some of them survived this long, and he doubts anything medical could do for them would help; that doesn't mean they might not try.

He tries to imagine letting anyone else near enough to touch those blood-soaked bodies, pick among the Croats and human parts scattered across the ground, so closely there's barely any space between, and can't. No one survives Croat, one way or another; what happens to you when you're infected isn't living by any definition of the word. 

He takes another breath and pulls his sidearm, thumbing off the safety. This was always coming, he's always known that, and lying to yourself only works when you're not holding the gun. There are things you don't ask of anyone, he told Cas once upon a time, and this is one of them.

"Everyone get back--"

"No." Startled, he looks at her, then at Alicia and her team, then back to Amanda, who licks her lips nervously but doesn't move. "We don't do this alone. Not anymore." She reaches down, pulling her sidearm. "On your mark."

It takes two tries for Dean to say the words, wondering if it helps or not that most of them on the ground don't even know they're here. If they're lucky, they never will, not until they're far beyond here. "Let's do it."

* * *

When they're done, they put a bullet in the head of every Croat one more time, just in case.

Dean checks his hand for any trace of blood one more time before wiping the sweat from his forehead, barely feeling the icy bite of the air around them. His bloody coat, like everyone else's, was discarded when they were done in a pile near the bodies, and he automatically checks everyone again for potential danger points from the blood splatter. The jeans may be a loss, but winter means coats, hats, and layers, and in this case, their coats took the worst of it, and the layers mean the chances of blood getting to any skin is a hell of a lot lower. 

Glancing at the walls is a mistake; it reminds him, like he could forget, that they're being watched, and right now, it feels like every pair of eyes in Ichabod just saw them execute helpless people who forty-five minutes ago were just volunteers helping desperate survivors get past the last obstacle between them and safety. Friends, family, God knows who just had to watch him cut off each scream with a shot to the head before going grimly to the next. It was fast, and it was mercy, but that doesn't change the fact they might have been dying from the Croats, but he's the one who gave the order to kill them.

Numb, he guesses he may owe his predecessor an apology; that wasn't nearly as hard as he thought it'd be. Should have been.

As Amanda joins him, the slump of her shoulders tells him he's not the only one feeling it. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she answers, glancing back as Alicia motions her team to watch the bodies before making her way toward them. Looking at her red-rimmed eyes, he starts a question that she cuts short, shifting her rifle back tiredly as she stops beside Amanda.

"I should have…." She grimaces, pushing back a strand of hair escaping from her pony-tail after checking her hand. "I don't know, something."

"Your checkpoint?" She nods shortly, and Dean remembers how she looked when she came in. "What happened?"

"Checkpoint A didn't have anything for an hour," she says tonelessly. "The civilian volunteers offered to watch the checkpoint while we used took the emergency truck down the road, see if--anyway, ten miles out, found this group coming in from one of the side roads. They told us they hadn't seen anyone else, seemed pretty calm but Jody and Andy offered to wait with them while me and Matt checked ten more miles of Road A, just to make sure."

Dean nods, watching Alicia take a quick breath.

"It's quiet out there," she says. "Even with the engine going, I--I thought I heard gunshots." She swallows hard, and Dean sees Amanda focus on Alicia in growing alarm. "A couple of miles ahead, we--I guess they didn't hear us coming. If they'd waited five minutes, I would have been there. If we hadn't stopped…."

Yeah, he thinks he knows where this is going. "How many?"

"Six," she whispers. "Three adults and two kids. The back door of the car was open and there was a carseat, and--I had to be sure, maybe they didn't--couldn't do it, and….five fucking _minutes_ , I would have been there!"

"Jesus." Reaching for her, Dean pulls her into a hug as she starts to shake. "It's okay," he breathes, wondering how the fuck Alicia fought those Croats--hell, how she even made it _back_ \--carrying that shit in her head. A carseat. Jesus Christ. "You--"

"I'm okay," she says, voice thready, drawing in a shuddering breath before pulling away from him, and he watches as she brings herself under control, stripping out everything until she raises her chin, and all he sees is the hunter reporting to her leader. "Me and Matt went down to the fifteen mile mark and stopped every mile on the way back to Jody and Andy to check; we counted ten to fifteen bodies at each stop, and that's just the ones we could see still in their cars or near the side of the road."

"None of the earlier groups--"

"The last couple of days, no one who's come in was in any condition to notice anything," Alicia confirms bleakly.

And the people coming in didn't want to see: hard enough to keep going without seeing the other option and knowing you might need to take it. 

"We should have stopped to check the bodies more closely," she adds bitterly. "Croat bites wouldn't be hard to spot, and the bullet solution would be my choice if I was out here. I just...I couldn't look at another carseat." She trails off, looking down, and he can see her hands fist briefly before they relax again. "I should have checked."

"No, you did the right thing." The potential for blood contamination is always there, no matter how careful they are. No reason to risk it if there wasn't a reason for it, and they just experienced the proof. Turning back, he surveys the bodies, the ones sprawled across the ward line still setting off constant showers of golden sparks, and figures it's been long enough since the attack to risk opening the gate long enough to get a couple of teams out here. "Okay, let's get a crew out here to burn the bodies and get this done."

"Here?" Amanda makes a face. "Stupid question: we can't move them. Ichabod has a procedure for a fast burn; it's happened before. Want me to give the order for them to open the gate and get some teams out here to keep watch?" 

"Yeah, go ahead," he answers, eyeing the sun just reaching its zenith and wondering how the fuck it's not even noon yet; it feels like days have passed. "We're not leaving them out here for…." He trails off; the faint sense of something off from the wall that he almost forgot is back again, and looking at those bodies, it suddenly clicks: carseats. "Amanda, wait."

She stops a few feet away, looking a question, but Alicia follows his gaze, staring at the bodies with a frown. "Just them, no one else?" Alicia nods, frowning deepening, and Dean tires to think. "Why'd you bring them back and not the bus?"

"I was coming back to report," she answers distractedly. "We took them back to the checkpoint, but when they found out the bus wasn't coming back for another hour, they--" She shakes her head sharply. "No one wanted to risk a situation, so we agreed to bring them in if they didn't mind being crushed in the back of the truck. They didn't mind at all; seemed pretty goddamn relieved, in fact." Suddenly, she stills, eyes widening. "Thirty adults walking along the road, son of a _bitch_."

"And no kids." Thirty adults, and from what he can see, none above fifty. Not every group came in with kids, elderly relatives, injured people, or disabled members, but he can't think of any this size without at least one of those. Tensing, he scans the area around them, focusing on the empty road and the slight rise a quarter mile out that creates a two mile blindspot even from Ichabod's new walls, aware from the sudden pain in his right arm that he already has the rifle back out and pointed at the empty road. 

"Get behind the ward line," he says flatly. " _Now_."

He waits until Andy and Jody run past him before he starts backing toward the line, aware of Amanda and Alicia just behind him on either side and counting the steps back to the ward line. Just as his foot crosses the line, however, he knows it; that's when the world drops out from under him and closes around him all at once.

Dean has just enough time to wonder what the fuck before he's frozen in place; for a single, shattering moment, he's buried alive and floating in endless space at the same time, something massive and formless and impossible bending around him and through him, alien beyond anything that ever used the name. And it _knows him_.

"…Dean!" Amanda is saying, sounding frantic, and Dean blinks, rocking a little, feet planted just a few inches from the right side of the ward line. "You okay?" Her hand is on his forehead before he can stop her. "You feel a little--"

"Hot, fighting does that." Scowling, he pushes her hand away and gives the bodies a pointed look. "Is it just me, or is this a little familiar?"

She nods grimly. "There's some definite similarities, yeah."

"Alicia, get over here," he says. "Rest of you, watch that rise." Alicia slides her rifle over her shoulder as she jogs toward them while her team focuses on the road with the same intensity they turned on the Croats. "How were they acting when you picked them up?"

"Kind of out of it, at least until we got back to the checkpoint. One was crying, but a couple of the others seemed to be helping her out…." She stops, and beneath the dirt, he can see her blanch. "The one that attacked me. You don't think--?"

"That woman was feeling seller's regret and they were keeping her quiet? That'd be my guess." He turns to Amanda. "The first attack on Ichabod, it's not just me here?"

"Nope," she answers, eyes fixed on the bodies with a set expression. "You know, I was wondering how the hell you transport Croats for a murderspree without them killing each other before you get there."

"Answer: you do it before they're Croats." That gate isn't opening until he knows exactly what happened here. "Alicia, how long was it between when you found them and when you got them here?"

"About two hours," she answers. "They must have been timing it to get that bus, but how the hell they'd know the schedule today...." She stills, and Dean can see her left hand start to flex before she makes a fist. "That's what he was doing with the volunteers today. I can't believe I missed this. The fucker set us up."

Dean would love to know how the fuck Micah got word out this morning when they no longer live in cellphone country--and how the fuck he got on the volunteer list--but that's for later. "What did he say to you?"

"Bullshit, par for the course," she spits, and Dean gets a glimpse of something deeper than anger, old and very dangerous, and remembers the tip of that knife between her fingers. Even seeing her holding it, he couldn't quite believe she'd do it; now, he thinks the only thing that held her back _was_ waiting until he got in range. Because when she meant it, she didn't miss. "He said, 'She's coming for us both', and something about getting out of here, whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean."

He files that away for later as he calculates the window for Croat: six to eight hours, whoever did this had to have a Plan B for failures in Plan A.

"Alicia--"

"Plan B, I know," she says grimly, looking around the empty area around them and then the road. "If we hadn't driven them back, they'd be at the checkpoint killing everyone, so Plan B; survivors come back--they couldn't have been counting on us fucking up with the gate when we knew there was a Croat attack at Checkpoint A!"

"Assume smart demons who know that," he answers, focusing on the place the new arrivals were clustered and measuring the distance to the ward line. Add in the positions of the volunteers one by one at the moment the woman attacked Alicia. Even shock and terror don't block out a Croat attack from someone in your group. They didn't even turn their heads, staring straight at…. "Alicia, get down to Zero at the bottom of the hill and if anyone's still there, tell them to get in the trucks and start driving anywhere but here, and don't stop for passengers." She nods grimly. "Matt, you're with her. Jody, Andy, keep watch."

"Got it."

As Alicia, Matt on her heels, starts running toward the rise in the road, Amanda steps closer. "Okay, thought: last time, came as human and waited it out, didn't cross the wards until they were Croats because they were hiding from Teresa. This time, though--why'd they wait? If they wanted inside Ichabod, all they had to do is start running once they hit the ward line as a group; no way would we have gotten all of them, and chances at least one of them would have gotten inside."

"They weren't trying to get inside the gate," he answers as Alicia and Matt disappear from view. They're armed to the goddamn teeth and he's just watched them live and in action, but he doesn't think he's gonna breathe until he sees them come back. "Second verse, same as the first: Croats are the distraction for something else. Last time, killing them was the distraction for the kids; they needed fodder to slow us down and keep our attention away from the daycare. This time, killing them on the ward line was to create the distraction. Look down." 

She follows his gaze to the ward line; even here, twenty feet from the bodies, faint sparks hiccup up from the ground, almost invisible even in the pre-dawn gloom unless you're paying attention. Around the bodies it's still going strong, the golden sparks massed together like a swarm of fireflies, though nothing like the eye-searing brightness of that many living Croats all concentrated in a single spot. Probably no way to tell the difference between that and a new flare inside the one you already expect to see. Teresa only knows when something crosses it, not what, and he's going to bet that Croats lying across it like a goddamn bridge is pretty much a perpetual 'something crossing it'.

Croats don't follow orders on who to attack; they go after the first person they see, like that woman did when she changed and Alicia was in her line of sight. From where the group was standing, the only people they could see were those volunteers waiting for them by the ward line, the tempting buffet located right where those Croats needed to die.

"Something wanted to cross the ward line without being noticed," he says softly. "The wards won't stop anything that isn't using a physical form, but it'll light the hell up when they cross. So it needed some cover. Then all they had to do was wait until everything calmed down and someone stumbled the fucking twenty foot long salt line." Amanda sucks in a breath, reaching for her other gun, and he grabs her wrist, stopping her mid-motion. "Don't move."

With a visible effort, she lets her hand relax in his. "Did anything get inside Ichabod?"

"By now, we'd have heard about it if they had," he answers evasively, trying to remember exactly how long it took them to close the gate after his order: yeah, those things could make it easy if he times it from that first flare at the ward line. Teresa can't tell _what_ , just _where_ , and Croat was right there for cover. This is a town waiting for an attack after two years of fighting them off, though; the second something crossed the ward, every person not closing the gate would be pointing guns loaded with salt, blessed silver, or lead right at the opening and firing until they ran out of ammo while doubling down on the salt line, and not a lot would make it through that. Assume smart: why bring attention now to something inside the ward line when they can wait for that one, inevitable mistake with all the incoming people? "They're definitely inside the wards. Check out the view of the road; for fuck's sake, _don't look around_. They're watching us now. They want inside, and they need us to order the gate opened or give the people inside a reason to do it."

"What do you think--" Amanda stares at the road, expression blank, and says, very softly, "Carol."

The skin of his back prickles, and he has to fight the urge to jerk around and start shooting at nothing. It could be anything, but why assume anything else when they got a confirmed Hellhound only thirty miles away, and Hellhounds move in packs. There's no reason the pack should have hung back, especially after seeing one of their own under attack, not unless she was a side issue--for some reason--while they were on their way somewhere else. He really should have followed up on that. 

"If we warn them...." She trails off, grimacing. "We stop being useful, we're dead."

"If you think you can shout the plot to this twenty-four feet up in under five seconds, go for it," he murmurs and feels a very not subtle kick to his shin. "Can Alison read you down here? She's gotta be on the walls, and if she can see you--"

"We're not linked, and right now, even the residue's gone," Amanda murmurs. "When it was just Ichabod here, she knows me well enough that she could risk finding me without getting overwhelmed, but this many minds she doesn't know?"

"Cas mentioned that earlier, yeah." Cas is up there, and of all the times random-ass telepathy should show up, _this would be it_. It won't, of course; that would make it _useful_ , can't have that. He's torn between wanting Cas to do something crazy and awesome like grab a gun and leap down the wall-- _twenty-four fucking feet_ \--and hoping he stays right where he is. It's possible someone at the gate might assume all clear (and Dean just forgot to say anything), but Cas won't assume anything, will make sure they wait if he has to hold the gate himself at gunpoint. 

"You know, I never asked--" The unmistakable sound of a couple of motors interrupts him, and Dean starts toward the ward line, not really surprised. "Uh, what--"

"Motorcycles, there were a couple at Zero," Amanda answers grimly. "Dean, if a fucking _Croat_ can figure out how to drive a motorcycle and I can't even get it into gear without it falling over--"

"Let's assume Alicia and Matt," he says, though he kind of sees her point. Checking his rifle, he shifts it to his left, relaxing his right hand deliberately and rubbing it against his thigh. He's still better with his handgun; he has to think when he pulls the rifle, a millisecond to adjust to the slight but important difference between right and left, but hopefully, he's good enough for this. 

As the bike makes the hill, Dean sees Alicia driving (of course) and Matt clinging to her for dear life as its engine sputters dangerously, probably running on nothing but fumes. He motions for Andy and Jody to get closer but to keep watch as the bike coasts the last few feet toward them before Alicia and Matt are off before it stops, glancing back once as they both sprint toward the line. 

"How close?" he asks

"Almost to the bottom of the hill by now," Alicia says breathlessly, cheeks flushed with hot color as they cross the ward line. "Zero was empty, saw something that looked like blood on the doorway and didn't stop to investigate. Grabbed the first bike just as they came out of the brush. Matt counted thirty before we took off and it was double that when we hit the top of the hill and still counting. Ambush, and a really good one; if we hadn't made for the bikes after I saw that blood, we'd be dead."

Dean nods. "Okay, we need options."

"We have time to get in the gate," Andy says immediately, brown eyes traveling around the circle and licking his lips nervously as Dean gives a quick shake of his head. Alicia's eyes narrow as they dart from him to the gate speculatively.

"Climb the walls?" Jody murmurs, and Dean looks at Amanda, who shakes her head and confirms it's not just him; they'd need superpowers to get up the wall before a Hellhound got to them, and he doesn't count on them waiting any longer than seeing the ropes come down. 

"What about somewhere with something a little smaller?" Alicia interrupts, jerking her head at her team to get closer before dropping her voice to barely a breath. "The gate's too big, right? We can't risk the salt line." He nods. "What about the doors?"

"What--" He feels like an idiot; Cas made more than just the gates. "Those doors."

"They're called postern doors," Matt says, flashing Dean a quick grin. "Six."

"You're geek of the day," Dean tells him. "I thought Tony had them bricked over until this is over."

"Priority was getting the gates up, so they fit some temp doors first and only started bricking yesterday," Amanda says, adding at Dean's baffled expression. "Quick dry cement, fast and dirty. It's maybe a half a foot thick at best, but whatever, doesn't matter; that shit could be solid titanium and we'd be fine."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "It doesn't?"

Her eyes briefly flicker to the wall. "Cas is up there. Think he can he punch through a foot or so of brick and concrete?"

"They have sledgehammers," Alicia offers. "Hope they have a lot, though; he'll go through them really fast."

Jody shifts uncertainly. "How will he know--"

"He'll figure it out," Dean interrupts, because this is Cas. "Closest?"

"Northwest," Alicia answers. "If we--"

"Incoming," Matt interrupts, gun up, and following his gaze to the rise, Dean sees the first Croats stagger over the rise.

"Alicia, how many did you see again?" Dean asks, thinking of whatever (Hellhounds, he knows it) is watching them.

"Are numbers really important here?" she asks, facing the rise and the approaching Croats with a set expression. "I like 'a lot and more coming', how about you?"

"Overwhelming numbers, no hope of winning," Dean agrees, joining her at the ward line. "Fun."

"Fun," Amanda agrees, joining him at the line a few feet away. "So what's the plan?"

"I'm getting to that," he answers generously. "Short version: run really fast. Any questions?"

"I call tail," Alicia volunteers cheerfully as she raises her rifle. "This is gonna be great."

* * *

When Cas said that Croatoan was the sum of humanity's fears, he nailed it: mouths stretched in insane grins, teeth bared in anticipation of ripping apart anything and anyone they touch. Watching it live and in action earlier, it should be a lot more terrifying than it is, but without the screams of victims, it's almost mundane; shoot, shoot, shoot, don't even watch them hit the ground for those behind them to trip over, shoot them, too. Move back when they get close enough for a burst of speed and a lunge--Amanda abruptly jerking him back three feet from the ward line with a warning glance--and never, ever stop shooting.

They aren't mindless, though, and that's the killer; a human mind, however damaged, is still in there, and those brief flashes of human intellect, human calculation, are what makes them dangerously unpredictable. Worse, it's so fucking random that you never see it coming.

A quick check shows Alicia and her team spread out nearby, coolly firing off shots like it ain't no big while Amanda takes a step back for a fast reload. Moving slightly in front of her, Dean does a mental count and figures he has another couple of lines of Croats with the rifle before he needs to reload and blesses Cas for really being into the entire 'arming him' thing; looks like it's also useful for survival, who knew? 

"Everyone okay?" he shouts. Vague affirmative sounds drift back toward him, which he takes as agreement. They're alive, after all.

"They're not fast enough," Amanda says quietly, coming back up beside him; unlike Alicia and her team spread along the ward line, she's almost at his hip. The brief glimpses of Alicia and her team makes him suddenly wonder what it'll be like to have one of his own; even he can see how they're following Alicia's unspoken orders, watching for signals only another team member can recognize. Only a couple of months since Cas appointed her, but they already work together like they live in each other's skin. He thinks, a little wistfully, that he would really like the chance to find out. "The ones earlier must have been the pick of the litter."

Dean gives her a querying look.

"Frostbite on that one's hands," she says, shooting the one she's referring to and adding a couple more bullets for good measure as it goes down. "No wonder they're on the low end of performance. These people were dying already; they might only be alive because the infection got 'em first."

Startled, Dean scans the Croats carefully and has to agree with her assessment; there's a clumsiness, like a demon who's new to bodies after too long on the rack, a weird lack of coordination in some. Now that he thinks about it, the ones at the daycare were a hell of a lot faster, and the attack at the ward line were definitely better than this. The near-skeletal bodies beneath the torn winter coats aren't the only indicator; now that Amanda pointed it out, he can see the beginnings of rot at the tips of blackened fingers and noses, skin patchy on their cheeks, and limping gaits that might mean frozen feet or toes no longer functioning at optimum. 

Before Cas, he only vaguely understood Croat had stages, but until now, it didn't occur to him that even after manifesting the process might not be complete that turns a person into a monster. It can't fix what's broken (or not there), but it can sure as fuck make sure the Croat's not slowed down by it.

For a second, he thinks he sees a figure smoothly walking among them, straight and certain among the stumbling bodies coming up the hill, dark eyes fixed on him, flashes of blood-red around pale legs, but when he blinks, they're gone. If he's already hallucinating from a fever he doesn't even feel, better to find out now. "Amanda--"

"Red dress," she says shortly, something unidentifiable in her voice. "She wanted us to see her."

Dean uses a brief absence in the ranks--really slow, but from the look of what's still coming over the rise, numbers are making up for it--to reload. Slamming in the magazine--not nearly as smoothly as Amanda--Dean steps back around her and starts firing again, watching in growing disbelief as another group stumbles over the rise. 

"Dean, they all look like shit," she says, a snarl in her voice. "Son of a _bitch_ , they were on their way here. They must have thought…."

You think you're gonna die in the middle of the road and looking the bullet option in the face, then someone in a red dress shows up and offers to save your kids, your parents, your friends for the small, small price of your mind, not even your soul (maybe); what do you do? You get infected, get in the truck, and get dropped off near a walled city, waiting out the hours until you go crazy. As yet another group shambles over the rise--Jesus, how many survivors did they pick up?--Dean signals and starts to drop back, watching in relief as they raggedly following along. This has to look convincing, not just to some Hellhounds but the demon who set this up and watching every move they make.

"How long until you need to reload?" Dean asks after they reach the halfway point between the wards and the wall, trying to ignore each flash of vivid red that's more unnerving than the endless stream of Croats coming at them. He hopes to God someone's got a gun to someone's head at the gate; when people are good at being people, they're just as liable to fuck up, and all they need is someone getting the bright idea of opening the gate when they're this close to it and trying to save them.

She gives him a startled look, following his gaze to the gate and gets with the program. Dropping back behind him and pulling a reload out, they leave an opening for the Croats to get between them and the gate, and in that flash of human intelligence, they take it.

"Five seconds," Dean murmurs as the rise starts to look almost solid with Croats and noting the ones they're shooting are starting to look dangerously alert now, focused, like Croat finally overcame the near-death of the bodies and is ready to party. He forces himself not to take a step back, not yet; they only got one shot to make this look good, and it's not just hellhounds they have to convince anymore. "Okay-- _now_."

* * *

This isn't a great plan; the only way that they know it's working is that they're still alive. There's no time for relief, though, because it's time for part two; getting to the goddamn door, which unfortunately, none of them have actually seen. 

For him, it's less of a problem; even before he saw the wall in real life, if he was asked, he probably would have surprised himself as much as the questioner by being able to describe it down to the last goddamn detail, the outline and principles crowded into that space in his mind that he's labeled 'Cas', and that talk with Tony confirmed he can also name the physical and chemical properties without breaking a sweat. He can see it now, a rough sketch that must have been Cas's original idea, details filling in as quickly as he can understand them, and the more he learns, the more he realizes this might not be doomed to failure after all. If they can get there, that is.

Each door is eight feet in width, and like the gates, they're sunken into the wall so there's a ten foot deep alcove between the outside of the wall and the door itself. Unlike the gates, however, the eight foot opening is both easily defendable by two people, and the line they need to draw on this side of the door is gonna be a lot shorter. Each of them carry enough salt to draw several lines, in fact, and if they have basic timing and a little luck, they'll be protected long enough to get inside when they open the door (after the brick is sledgehammered away please God), close it, and fix the salt line inside if by any chance opening the door or their brave retreat inside breaks it. He's already mapped out where he'll put the salt lines, how long he'll need to do it and how long they can wait for that door to open (as long as possible); all that's left is actually getting there.

The north gate is about five and a half miles from either the western or eastern gate, so the northwest door-- _postern door_ , thanks, Matt--is smack dab between them, so two and a quarter on the outside. Parking Lot A (and B and C) are now part of the wall, but those weren't the only place people were parking to get off the road fast and start walking; Tony's calculations mean the north fields are inside the barrier, and considering the number of people trying to be subtle coming in, he's surprised not at all to see the number of abandoned cars among the skeletal trees and snow-covered brush that were outside Ichabod's technical city limits and Cas didn't pull for the wall. In fact, he was pretty much counting on just that.

As far as he's concerned, that's the only reason this has any shot of working; he doesn't even pretend he can run all of it in a single shot, much less do it while keeping ahead of a not so miniature army of Croats who aren't affected by shit like pain and cramping and a fever three months back. Amanda might have been exaggerating about her leg, but he doubts it; she's a hunter and wouldn't tell him anything less than the truth about what she can do even casually. And while he's sure his people are in great shape, that's a fuck of a run without a break; they'll all need those obstacles to slow down the Croats and give them a minute to rest.

The first breather isn't even a quarter of a mile in, and Dean almost protests stopping; he feels fine. Then he remembers Alicia's team behind them and a check shows Alicia and Matt are running rearguard, with Jody and Andy between them and Dean and Amanda, who are out in front. At Amanda's significant glance, he concentrates keeping ahead and not falling over his own feet between the uneven terrain and occasional piece of broken automobile, which he's kind of grateful for. Otherwise, he'll start thinking too much about what's following them besides Croats and hellhounds.

Hellhounds can think, but they're not human; a demon in the mix, though, might just figure out why the hell they didn't go to the gate when they had a chance, especially one who knows Chitaqua's hunters and might guess they have a specific reason to know why they couldn't risk opening it. The red dress of the demon Cas met at the Crossroads tells that's exactly what they're dealing with and opens up a whole host of new questions starting with 'why'. 

Slipping past an overturned van, Dean glances back at Jody and Andy two cars and ten yards behind them, Alicia and Matt bringing up the rear twenty yards farther out, with Croats at less than twenty behind them. Obstacles don't stop them--nothing but a few bullets will--but they're definitely slowed down by a ton or so of metal that doesn't respond to their rage by fleeing before it and seem shaky on going over things instead of taking the extra time to shove them aside. 

Dean pauses, watching a Mazda shoved aside by the weight of enraged Croats and giving all of them a lot of ground to cover before they have to start shooting again. Even for Croats on the hunt, they're way too focused. The cover fire coming down from the walls--he makes a mental note to thank everyone involved if he survives this--doesn't seem to be distracting them, either. Cocking his head, he follows Alicia and Matt's movements; something about what they're doing bothers him, but he can't take the time to work out why before he's moving again.

Amanda jerks him behind the van, scowling at him when he starts toward the next car. Measuring this distance in vehicles passed is a lot less intimidating than thinking of the actual distance. "Breather."

Jesus, feels like they've gone five already. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she says, looking him over with professional expertise. "Don't be a guy now; how much longer can you go without knocking yourself out? I'm not leaving you out here if you fall, so better we plan for it now. How many breaks to get you to the door still on your feet? You need them, tell me. We'll work it in."

Dean wants to say hell yes he'll be fine until they get there, but he takes a second to think about it first. He's up to a fast jog around Chitaqua under the merciless eye of an entire camp of tattletales (thanks, Cas), but he's also wiped afterward. He's been up since dawn, and between the fighting and fleeing the Croats, he's running on pure adrenaline and fear and, admit it, the fact that everyone who can fit onto the walls of Ichabod are watching every goddamn move they make. _Cas_ is watching him. Pride may go before the fall, but it can also be the only thing that keeps you on your feet.

"I'm not sure," he admits finally, checking to see if he needs to reload. "I'll tell you if it gets dicey. No promises I won't, you know, be a little tired when we get to the door, though."

"Okay, I'm impressed," Amanda answers with a flashing grin, but the sound of shouting interrupts them. Pushing up, they both take in the sudden lack of Alicia's team in sight, but a glance at Amanda shows she's not worried and decides to go with it. As the Croats approach, they pause like they're looking for something--which hey, that's weird--before abruptly, the world is gunfire and snow. When it clears, Dean sees thirteen dead Croats, Alicia standing on the roof of a truck looking smug, and her team spaced in a square around them. "I always knew she had a mind on her," Amanda says admiringly. "Just needed something to wake it up."

And bought them some very useful breathing room, too: they're not wasting it.

"All right," he says. "Let's get going."

* * *

Dean gets his second wind four stops later, which is lucky, since they barely have thirty seconds at the next before Alicia yells a string of profanity as impressive in length as it was worrying in existence: the Croats got way too close again and Dean's lost any hope of working out how many are out there but 'maybe endless' (it sure feels like it). Their progress isn't nearly as impressive as he wishes; having to dart halfway to the ward line to get around some of the pile-ups too high to get over and slowing down to navigate between tight-packed vehicles before clear land opens up again, is turning this into a crawl.

Taking a deep breath, Dean rubs the stitch in his side as he makes for a rusty truck and three cars lined up with it, boosting himself onto the hood of the truck with a grunt before running across the cars, parked so close that if they still had a decent paintjob, they wouldn't now. Jumping to the ground on the other side, he stumbles, a lance of pain shooting up his instep and nearly knocking him off his feet. Catching himself before he hits the ground, he looks back to see Amanda standing on cab of the truck providing cover; that means the Croats are close enough to Alicia and Matt that they need time to run, and Jody and Andy (and the fire coming from Ichabod's walls) aren't enough. 

There's not much of a reduction in the number of Croats coming after them, almost underlining how wrong this is especially for a new demon who there's no fucking way Crowley trusted out of sight, much less running a collection call. And he's still not liking how they slow down in their crazy, headlong scramble when Alicia's team does one of their things.

"Go ahead," Amanda shouts, presumably at him, but Dean ignores her, angry at himself for not checking before he got down here. After a few more shots, Amanda turns and jumps to the hood of the nearest car and a couple of strides later lands beside him with barely a hitch in her step as she grabs his arm and pulls him along with almost no loss of forward momentum. 

"Come _on_ ," she huffs impatiently. "They figured out climbing over instead of going through. We got discount Croats, but they're catching up to the sticker price version. Alicia and Matt barely got far enough ahead to risk shooting again."

"They're getting faster," Dean observes breathlessly as they start to cross fifty feet of uninterrupted dirt studded with the occasional clump of winter-dry grass at a dead run. Glancing up at the wall, he confirms his performance is being monitored by more people than he can count and wishes hopelessly that he wasn't wheezing--that can't be impressive to anyone--and wishes even more that didn't bother him. 

Up ahead is a school bus and a van that ran straight into it, hood half-buried beneath the tail jacked almost five feet off the ground. He tries to decide whether to go over the narrow remains of the hood or around and try to get through the scraggles of brush. As they reach it, Dean glances back and sees Andy and Jody just hitting the ground by the cars, and Alicia and Matt are on the truck and from the angle of their guns, firing right down. "Holy shit."

"How the hell are they--" Amanda cuts herself off, shoving Dean toward the car. Over it is; climbing up, Dean navigates the narrow space between the back of the bus and the windshield and stops short as he gets a look at what comes next. 

"Fuck. Me."

Amanda almost knocks him off the hood, growling something before she sucks in a breath at the view over his shoulder. 

"I think we just found Parking Lot D," he says mildly, staring at the endless rows (or piles) starting thirty feet away, crushed so close together--and sometimes smashed against each other--he's seeing a lot of jumping in their future. At a shout from behind them, Dean turns to see Alicia crouching on the roof of a rusted Buick, shooting steadily as Jody and Andy scrambling over the hood. Matt nowhere in sight.

"Dammit," he starts, but Amanda catches his arm, shaking her head and that's when Dean sees Matt roll out from under the car, shouting at Alicia, who doesn't move as the Croats lumber toward her. "What's she doing?"

Matt shouts again, coming to a hard stop, but to Dean's surprise, he doesn't run back toward her, jerking his head at Andy and Jody to get behind the next car as he takes out his gun. They're too far away to be sure, but Dean thinks he's staring at--something under the car. Snow makes it hard to see but--

"Get down," Dean says, shoving Amanda down on the hood and covering her just as Alicia straightens, kicking a Croat in the face before pointing her gun at the hood and shooting, Matt following with a shot to the car beside it. Turning, Alicia hops off the hood and runs toward Matt and Dean sees her wide grin as she fists on of her hands and the car explodes behind her. "They carry C fucking 4?" No fucking way could that car explode like that otherwise even if they both hit the fuselage. "Ana _let them_ have some? She barely let me look at it!"

"This is Alicia," Amanda says, sounding muffled before he realizes she's laughing. "Wouldn't be surprised if she carried an extra missile in her coat."

They could use one of those, he thinks just before another car explodes, and Dean wonders how the hell Matt did that with Croats on their heels. Then as Alicia joins Matt, he sees her frantic waving and realizes it's at them.

"We're up," he says to Amanda, checking the other cars warily as burning Croats wander through the snow, though behind them he can see more coming. Stepping off the car, he takes a deep breath that hurts all the way down. "Let's get going."

* * *

Alicia and Matt with Jody and Andy pull the 'blow up random cars' twice more before Dean assumes they ran out of explosive (they carry _C4_ and detonators now, what the hell? He's gonna have to talk to Ana; if anyone gets to play with plastic explosives, it should be him). 

"Something's wrong with this," Dean tells Amanda during a brief break, shooting at the mass of Croats indiscriminately; at this distance, with his left, he's taking best effort and sacrificing aim for getting a hit on something, anything to slow them down. They're getting help from the wall, but it takes experience to hit a target as fast as a Croat and no one's got experience shooting from a twenty-four foot elevation, either. She nods agreement before jerking her head, indicating it's time to move on; there's no time for an answer, but from the fleeting expression on her face, she probably knew it before he did.

Croats aren't really faster than humans; they just don't get tired and don't care if they dislocate or rip anything in pursuit of their murder-purpose. Which technically does make them faster than humans, or at least them; Amanda's panting, and while she's not favoring her leg yet, he thinks she will be soon. In their favor, speed is most useful on the straight and flat when you're running, which this isn't. What's not is that he's had just enough time to think that he's not imagining that these Croats aren't right, either, and it's got nothing to do with the shape they were in when they were infected.

Croats aren't mindless, they're just really focused on the hunt, and usually, that means anything in range, including each other. These Croats are focused, he'll give them that, so focused that every bleeding Croat body is ignored, trampled into pulp in the rush forward to get them, the shooting from the walls doesn't merit even a snarl, and there's nothing about it that works with what he knows about Croats in the other world, nothing like that first group at the ward line, and sure hell not the ones in Ichabod. 

Alicia and Matt are doing a good job of covering their tail, keeping the Croats far enough back to avoid close contact, but it's getting harder to keep up fire and also run, and Dean watched two close calls before deciding to mix this up a little. It's great and everything they want to protect him, but Amanda will have to knock him out and drag him to that goddamn door if she thinks he's leaving anyone behind. 

The first two times he stopped to provide Alicia and Matt more cover, Amanda only gave him enough time to see them break and run before jerking him off balance and get him moving. He fought it both times, but by the third, he saw enough to realize Alicia's team is working a very specific pattern and the distance between Alicia and Matt, Jody and Andy, and him and Amanda was deliberate. Worse, from Amanda's grim look the second time he argued, it was clear that nothing he could say was going to stop them, and at best, he was going to get them killed if he didn't follow along. 

So when he takes a breather--and he takes them more now, just for this--he gets in a few shots, and Alicia and Matt a little more breathing room. The look on Amanda's face--half-frustration, half-affection--tells him she knows perfectly well he's not going without them and she'll just deal with it. 

Getting those shooting breaks, brief as they were, was when it finally started to click, and not just the weirdness of the Croats not eating their own; they were focused all right, and he didn't think he was wrong about exactly what they were focused on no matter how badly he wanted to be.

Every so often, Dean sees a flash of red just outside the ward line, there and gone before he can turn to look. He wonders what that's like, to look at people you used to hunt with and who will be hunting you if they get a chance; if that's a memory that Cas took when he got him out of hell, he's glad he doesn't have it.

As they get to a brief clearing in the cars, Amanda checks behind them before pulling him behind a Winnebago and he decides he really does want to be wrong about this and only way to be sure.

"They're after Alicia," Dean says once he catches his breath, watching Amanda carefully. Like nothing else, this has really brought home to him how good they are at this and how little he knows, but he's learning fast, and from the look on his face, he's not wrong. Fuck, and it was already going so badly. "It's like they don't even see the rest of us, even Matt when he's shooting them in the face. They're following her every move."

He reviews the last few times they held off the Croats; two more killboxes, then the bait and switch, Alicia shoving Matt to run, holding position until the Croats are too close and her team sets up behind her, then breaking while they hold the Croats off for the few moment she needs to get to them, repeat ad infinitum. 

Amanda focuses on an unnecessary check of her gun. "Is that Erica outside the ward line?"

Dean stares at her, unable work out how to deny it when he's trying to figure out where she got that from.

"The demons pacing Alicia on the ward line to watch what she's doing and control the Croats, she always appears parallel with Alicia--and now that I know Alicia was Erica's secret tactical advisor, makes sense," Amanda continues, still looking at her gun. "Look, I don't trust Micah any farther than my reach, but if he's playing infiltrator, I promise you his ass wouldn't have been anywhere near anyone turning Croat. Fuck our lives, he may have been genuinely trying to warn her about Erica. Though how he'd know...." She trails off before looking at him. "Dean, a demon is one thing, but one of our own stalking us? This is need to know info."

"If I'd known she'd be here, I would have," Dean snaps, and Amanda stills, looking startled, like just maybe if he'd kept his mouth shut, she might have given up, or maybe--just maybe--she expected him to lie. "She was the one who met Cas at the Crossroads before Crowley showed up." She nods slowly. "There was something else that tipped you off."

"Watched Erica for two years, waiting for a reason to put a bullet in her head," Amanda answers. "Luke was a fucking psychopath, made my skin crawl, but that's all he was. Erica--she could fake normal. Fake it so well you don't even realize she's not just trying to bang your new best friend's girlfriend but has a bullet with your friend's name on it." The blue eyes darken when they rest on him. "Don't feel too bad about it though; she sure as fuck fooled you."

"I knew what she was," he says, because Dean did; Erica's history was probably the deciding factor to get her into Chitaqua. "If you're waiting for me to make excuses, Croats will picking us out of their teeth first. I don't have any."

Amanda's expression doesn't change for a long moment before she says, "I slept with her, and if you _ever_ tell Vera...."

Dean chokes on a laugh, and in his peripheral vision, he sees Amanda relax. Looking back, they're still okay, and he needs to know. "Alicia and Erica....?"

"Alicia really is a dead zero," she answers with a faint smile. "It wasn't that, but it was something with them. And another thing that lends credence to Micah--Erica hated him."

"He was on her team," Dean protests and hey, he's getting better at being himself again; he remembered something actually relevant. "When Alicia was injured--"

"Like I said, she could fake it, but honestly, I'm surprised he didn't have an accident on patrol. Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy," she says acidly before shaking herself. "Look, she's after Alicia for whatever reason, and I'm pretty sure at this point the rest of us just keep running, the Croats won’t even notice. If--"

"We aren't leaving her out here."

"You," Amanda says and grabs his arm before he can jerk away. "Dean, be practical here. You're a liability out here, but if you can get inside--"

"Through the bricked door." He can feel the flash of heat in his face: _liability_ ; she's not wrong. Flexing his right hand, he barely keeps from flinching at the low, deep ache that warns him it's not gonna be worth anything really soon now, and shooting targets with his left isn't in the same ballpark as doing it in the field. "The plan is I stand behind a salt line and watch you all die?"

"Alicia knows something's up, just not who," Amanda answers. "She's not coming within fifty feet of you; you stop too long, she won't move. She can tell the Croats are sticking with her, and she's using it--"

"To protect me, I get it. Except they're after _her_ , so how the hell...." 

"For _now_ ," she snaps. "And when Erica stops playing--"

"The plan is _not_ letting you, Alicia, and her team die!"

Amanda snorts. "You call what we're doing right now a _plan_? Dean, I think you've been out of the field too long."

"I need to check on Alicia." Jerking his arm free, he ignores her grimace and circles to the front of the Winnebago; Alicia's shoving Matt ahead of her before turning to shoot down the Croats behind them. Now that Amanda's confirmed it, he takes in the details, filing them away; Alicia does know what's going on, even if she doesn't know why. She's using the Croat's focus, darting parallel to them, never letting them get too close, pulling them from one side of the field to the other while Matt sets up halfway between her and Jody and Andy to take them out the minute Alicia breaks and runs for him, Jody and Andy providing supplementary fire until Alicia reaches Matt and all but Alicia retreats, and it all starts again. Watching Alicia, Erica's figured out how to keep her too busy for any more setups, and if they survive this, Ana's gonna be Alicia's new instructor in explosives and teaching them all how to play Croat: The Live Action Video Game where you blow them the fuck up.

"Let's go," Dean says, climbing on the hood and taking aim as the Croats come into his best range. Alicia races toward Matt, Croats falling over their own dead and dying trying to get to her (not even stopping for a snack or even fucking _notice_ ), and the way they mass together makes it really easy to just shoot in one convenient location. Putting all the Croats on Alicia means that until she's dead, the rest of them aren't in danger, and all their focus can be on protecting her. This is shitty tactics for a former team leader, even when they're a demon, but then again, that would depend on Erica's goal. And unlike Amanda, he actually thinks he does know why Erica's doing this now.

"Dean," Amanda starts quietly, making each shot count with a body count to prove it. "Look--"

"Gotta concentrate with my left." Which is partially true; he has to concentrate to keep his right hand from going into spasms, because practice isn't anything like the field and he forgot to switch before it got this bad. Taking a deep breath, he lets reflex take over and tries to think of what the fuck they're supposed to do now. 

Erica's just off the rack, and even Cas was surprised by the way she went after Crowley; usually, it takes time for a demon to get something like their own personality back from under the terror and pain and horror, and even more to get back anything resembling initiative. Erica was a Chitaqua hunter who trained under a Fallen angel and was led by a former demon; that she's breaking the curve makes as much sense as anything and her performance with Crowley confirms it. The thing is, that's not all that comes with rising off the rack, and he's not sure even Erica saw this coming, much less have any idea what's driving her right now. If he's right, and he kind of thinks he is.

"I don't get it," Amanda says, ignoring his unspoken but pretty damn obvious lack of interest in anything she's got to say right now (just because she was right doesn't mean he has to take it with grace). "Of all the times to pursue whatever with Alicia, why now? She was a lot of things, but not stupid."

"She's not stupid," Dean continues, counting down the seconds until they have to go; giving Alicia a little more time now is all he can do right now. "She's just forgotten what she's supposed to be doing here."

Amanda flickers a glance at him, surprised. "What?"

Taking aim, he watches a Croat go in a burst of blood and bone and brain. Seeing Jody and Andy stop firing, he slides the rifle over his shoulder and slides off the hood, just barely avoiding a groan at the fleet of endless cars ahead. If he's right, Erica forgot a lot more than just the plan. 

"Ever fuck with a demon's head for fun and profit?" he asks as Amanda catches up to as they run bravely to their next stop.

She looks at him with a combination of suspicion and outright anticipation (a hunter, in other words). "Why?"

"I got a plan. One question, though," he asks, boosting himself on the hood of the next car with new energy. "What's your farthest range when you don't care about a kill shot?"

* * *

Parking Lot D ends abruptly with an actual five car pile-up; circling it, there are a few more cars and trees, but mostly it's clear ground and Jesus, that's not good, but hey, no better time to see if this works. This close to the door--and they've gotta be close by now--Alicia's not gonna be able to play chicken with them much longer and she's gotta know that. He's not sure how she's managed this long; even with Matt doing everything he can, the pace she's set for herself is brutal, but that's less a problem than her end game. She's got this all worked out. The second they get to the door, she can't count on it being ready, and there's no way to tell how long until it is, so Plan A: she'll give the Croats and Erica exactly what they want and the rest of them plenty of time to get in the door and get the salt line fixed.

Amanda's expression when he double checks confirms it. "Pretty much that. She may shoot herself first, but I doubt it. She'll break for the ward line and keep going until she collapses probably, far enough away that we have a clear shot. She knows she's more interesting alive than dead, which will buy us more time."

"I'm going to think up new places to mow, just for her," Dean tells her grimly as they climb another miniature pile-up; it's like a junkyard gone wrong and weird everywhere he looks. "Maybe here; let her think about her sins."

"Our fearless leader," Amanda mutters, and they save their breath for running for a while.

As they stop behind a suburban he's pretty sure is basically all rust, Dean shoves the sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes, making a mental note to get a haircut and fighting the urge to strip off his flannel despite the fact it's fucking freezing no matter how hot he feels right now. Climbing on the suburban to get a better view of the field (such as it is), he takes in Alicia's team; no matter what Alicia thinks, they won't leave her out here, and that's more distraction for him and Amanda. They have to be close to the door now, but that matters less right now than getting them off Alicia's ass and spread the misery a little.

"You ready?" This idea looked a lot better half a parking lot ago, before he thought about how much is riding on him being right about what changed between the beginning of the second attack and when they started to run. On a guess, until Alicia took front and center at rearguard, Erica didn't see exactly who was fighting.

Demons hate humans, but nothing quite matches what they feel when they're faced with their own past, and the worst is the parts that remind them how much they lost when they rose from the rack. Whether she liked Alicia before or not, Alicia was team, _her_ team and the team leaders might have been crazy, but their loyalty to the teams they chose is one thing Cas never doubted, and Dean doesn't either. It wasn't just how they were trained, though that's how it started; it's what they wanted to be, a choice they made whether they realized it or not. Knowing Erica's history doesn't excuse what they did, but maybe if Dean the former hadn't been so fucking obsessed and realized how goddamn dangerous they were and made a goddamn effort to help them, their chosen teams--people they trusted with their lives and were trusted with theirs--might have saved them before it was too late.

Right now, pretty much everything is riding on just that loyalty; if he's wrong about what's driving Erica out here, that it's made her forget what the hell she came here to do, they're probably all gonna be dead and it's not gonna be fast.

"Dean, you're sure--"

"I'll make it an order if that'll get your ass moving," he interrupts, wishing he was still pissed, but guilt took care of that, fuck his life; Amanda's worry is for him right now (a liability) and while he's not doing this to prove he's not, it might help. "Again. Are you ready?"

"Yeah," Amanda answers, finishing her reload with a jaunty snap, easy in her skin. He thinks Jo would have been like this if she'd gotten the chance to finish growing up, years of experience behind her; Ellen carried herself the same way, cool confidence and purpose; but he can see his own certainty in her, that this was the one thing, the only thing she ever wanted to do. He doesn’t fool himself she won't jump gleefully into a deathmatch with a Croat army with a smile on her face, more deadly than any ten Croats but still just as dead with these numbers stacked against her. It won't be fast, she won't let it be, none of them will, but that won't change the ending of their story. The only person who can do that is him.

"You're not back in twenty minutes," he warns her, "I'm coming to find you."

Giving him a playful salute, she strolls casually into the open, one eye on Alicia as she heads straight for the ward line. Watching her in full view of the Croats, Dean fights down the urge to call her back; he's putting Amanda right in the open to save Alicia. The only thing that's even vaguely okay about this is that Amanda isn't just the best hunter Cas thinks he ever trained. By Dean's estimation, she's the best he's ever seen, and more importantly, if this was a truly shitty plan, she would have shot it down (and with commentary).

Taking a deep breath, he lines up the shot, waiting for Alicia to break and run. If Erica was as good as she was supposed to be, as Amanda thought she was when she was leading a team, she should have already changed her tactics when she realized Alicia figured it out. The fact she hasn't is the only proof he has that all she can think about is destroying this one piece of the life she lost. 

When Alicia breaks off, the steady fire holding them back the precious seconds she needs to get a head start, he can tell she's running on empty. The only thing that's probably keeping her going is seeing Matt behind her, Jody and Andy, the fear they won't run when she goes down, that they'll stay, and the flickering glance up, at him, uncertain. Like maybe in the back of her mind is the possibility it's not just her team that won't leave, and he sure as fuck hopes so; he needs every bit of pressure he can put on her to keep her from giving up.

When the rifle fires air, he tosses it off the truck without even thinking about it--no more ammunition, and he needs to lose the weight anyway--and pulls his handgun, picking up the next shot with barely a three second delay. It only takes a moment to focus, and for once, using his left feels automatic, instinctive, and every shot goes exactly where he needs it to go; it's not just Alicia he's buying time for, but Amanda. 

As Alicia comes to a stumbling stop, turning to face the oncoming Croats, Dean doesn't move when Matt does, keeping his eyes straight ahead and waiting for that flicker of red from the ward line. He doesn't move even when Jody and Andy hesitate seeing him still standing there, firing shot after shot, because Erica's watching Alicia, saw her stumble, has to know she's barely on her feet. It's not gonna be enough for the Croats to kill Alicia, no; she's going to want to watch it happen.

As the Croats get closer, Alicia calmly firing off each shot like she's fresh from a long rest, Matt looks at him for a moment as he gets to the set-up point, his expression broadcasting that Alicia doesn't think she's getting away this time, and he's not either. With a nod Dean hopes tells Matt he knows just that, he counts how long he has before he needs to reload and makes a mental note that he's gonna be practicing just that a lot in the future.

When he feels the last shot's been fired, he makes a brief prayer--to anything, why not--that Amanda's too focused on her task to pay attention to what he's doing. Getting the reload, he slides down the suburban, hitting the ground with a lance of pain up his spine like the stab of a knife and reloading clumsily on the run toward Jody and Andy, ignoring their growing alarm. If this works, Matt's gonna be too distracted dragging Alicia to safety to provide cover fire and someone's gotta pick up the slack.

As Jody frantically switches from her rifle to a handgun, he climbs up on the car with them, meeting Matt's eyes before looking pointedly at Alicia. Nodding, Matt starts toward the car in front of him, easing onto the hood just as Dean sees a flicker of red from the corner of his eye and a kick of adrenaline rocks him on his feet, wiping away the exhaustion under a hot chemical burn lighting every nerve.

"Go!" Dean shouts. 

He doesn't wait to see if Amanda took the shot or if it hit; he knows Amanda and she can't, won't miss. Both questions are answered on the field within a second anyway: the approaching Croats stop, Erica's control slipping from a bullet to the head if he knows Amanda, bewilderment and hazy confusion holding them still, uncertain. He can almost see the moment that they take in there's actually more than one target, and not all of them are human. As the too-focused mass dissolves, turning on each other, others sprint forward, and this time they're after _all of them_. 

Perfect.

Alicia doesn't waste time wondering what the fuck; with a new burst of energy, she jumps on the hood of the car between her and Matt, turning in time to kick a Croat just at her heels through the throat with an almost audible crunch and nearly decapitating it before taking two steps and jumping off the car. When she lands, even Dean can see the way her ankle turns before she tumbles to the ground, a barely controlled roll through the snow that she ends just barely on her knees. Matt's already halfway to her, but if she doesn't move, move _now_ \--

"Alicia!" She looks at him, white under the dirt and flecks of blood, as he starts firing toward the approaching Croats. "On your feet, that's an order! _Now_!"

Swallowing, she gets up, biting her lip hard enough he's pretty sure he sees blood before she starts a slow, limping jog, gesturing at him frantically to go, her lips moving in what's probably some pretty sweet profanity before she breaks into a run--Dean winces for her ankle, hoping to God it's not broken--and almost stumbling into Matt's arms before half-turning to fire off some cover over his shoulder: that's his girl.

Sliding down, Dean makes an effort to be careful; they can't afford another injury, not now. Through eyes starting to blur, he glances automatically at the wall, scanning it and pulling Cas's memory into an overlay and yeah, he's got it; he doesn't need to see it, fifty yards and this shit is over (mostly: the door thing, but whatever).

"Dean!" Amanda's shout from his left cuts off when she sees where he's looking. Reaching him, she shoves his shoulder. "Yeah, that's it--go! We'll be right behind you!"

"Bullshit." Turning around, he fires at the three front runners dogging Alicia and Matt's heels, watching in fierce satisfaction as a couple behind them stop for a tasty good time with the fallen. Skipping backward, he shouts at Alicia's team, "Cover them coming in!"

"Fuck you," Amanda breathes as they dodge around the hood of another car--model whatever, it's rust, who cares--pacing Matt and Alicia and keeping the Croats back. With a burst of speed, Matt gets breathing distance, but it's not enough; ignoring Amanda's shout, Dean runs toward them, and three precise shots to the head bring down two Croats almost breathing on their necks before Alicia's incredulous expression tells him it's time to get moving.

It's almost a surprise at the click in the back of his mind, jerking his attention sideways like some internal alarm just went off; when he looks, he sees the faint shadow of the doorway, right on schedule.

Stopping short, he gestures behind him. "Get her to the door! Move!" he snaps when Matt starts to slow, like he's trying to be polite or something and let Dean go first. As Jody and Andy fall back while he and Amanda cover them, he hears Alicia's muffled shouting and figures while there's definitely a door, it's not opening.

He can deal with that. "Inside," he wheezes to Jody and Andy, who don't even bother to pretend to listen as Amanda grabs him by the arm with a muffled curse and drags him to the opening before throwing him into the alcove. Two faltering steps and he's on his ass, Matt darting by him to join the rest of them at the opening while Alicia pounds on the door, standing on one foot and shouting to get it open and for Cas to stop feeling up the closest townsperson and get this shit done.

"Fuck. You," Dean wheezes at her, and she starts to laugh between curses, gulping sounds as she pounds the door.

"I'll--apologize," she giggles, balancing on one leg and clinging to the door between punches. "Sorry, Cas! Now open the goddamn door!"

A burst of pain from his right hand makes him fumble the salt, fingers refusing to even try and close. Annoyed with himself for forgetting, he switches to his left and crawls toward the opening, laying a shaky line behind their heels and hoping to God his militia's trained to skip those. 

"Six inches behind you," he shouts hoarsely over the noise of gunfire, and another bag of salt lands beside him, which he assumes means they heard him. Going back two feet, he lays another line, all his concentration on ignoring the shocks of pain from his right hand while Alicia takes the volume up a notch, which as it turns out is pretty fucking loud, and throws him her salt between each version of 'fuck' that seem to be the majority of her vocabulary. Honest to God, he didn't know she could talk like that.

"Still bricked, but they're almost through," she tells him before slamming her hand into the door again. "For fuck's sake, what are you doing, taking a fucking _break_? Smite that shit, Cas! Use the stare; that'll do it!"

Finishing the third salt line, he checks the opening. He can't see anything but four bodies blocking his view, but over the sound of gunfire, the Croats' snarling is pretty fucking close, and below that, he knows he hears the low, reverberating growls of Hellhounds who just got the message the clever plan may have failed. Swallowing, Dean sees another bag of salt--Jody or Andy, on a guess--and steps carefully between the lines to get it and get a look over their shoulders just as a grinning Croat face dissolves in a fountain of blood that sprinkles warmly over his face.

Fighting the heave of his stomach, Dean wipes his face with his sleeve and retreats, stuffing his shaking right hand in his pocket to deal with later as he adds one final line before taking out his gun and checking it. Beside him, Alicia curses again, both hands fisted and reddened from beating the wood. 

"Open the fucking door!" she shouts again, then gets a dangerous look on her face and steps back, glancing at the closest salt line. "Dean, I need your shoulder."

Dean blinks and stands up, and one callused hand clamps down hard enough to make him wince. "What are you--" Half-turning, she brings up her good leg and kicks the door hard enough to splinter the wood where her heel hits with a low thud. Brick there, okay, useful, what? "Holy shit. You can't--"

"Watch me," she snarls as her foot snaps out higher, shaking the entire door and making a vaguely hollow sound that makes her grin as the wood cracks before their eyes, revealing a slice of the world on the other side of the door: brick only halfway down the door now. "We'll crawl through if we have to--oh, there we go, it's going down," she breathes at a crunching noise and a sound a lot like shattering brick, lowering her leg with an audible gasp, followed by the groan of wood. "Hurry the fuck up! Becoming Croat chow was never in my life plan, people! Then again," she adds honestly as the sound of brick being very thoroughly destroyed fills the alcove, "none of this was, really, but still."

Muffled but clear, Dean hears someone (Cas?) say, "It's down."

"Amanda!" Despite the noise from the fighting at the opening, Dean can actually hear the squeal of hinges as the door starts to open. Turning toward them, Dean takes (shaky) aim. "Break! _Now_!"

He doesn't have time to see them react, much less give them some cover fire; Alicia's hand closes on his arm, jerking him off balance, and then he's stumbling through the open door before he hits the snowy ground on his ass and skids to a slow stop. Staring up at the grey sky, he wonders what the hell just happened as Alicia lands across his legs with a groaned curse. Pushing himself up, he sees Jody and Matt followed by Andy as Amanda shoves him through, coming in last. Turning in the doorway, she pauses for a roundhouse punch to the Croat behind her that makes Dean's jaw hurt in sympathy before slamming the door shut and dropping the full weight of her body against it, and someone else's hand shoves the bolt closed

Looking down, he sees her feet just short of an immaculate, unbroken line of salt curving neatly around the opening of the doorway and feels himself start to grin.

"Nice," he says hoarsely. "Job."

Amanda blinks at him before looking down at it, like she's not sure what it is, then gets four relatively normal steps before hitting the ground on her knees with a grunt. Immediately, Alonzo's beside her, helping her away, and abruptly Dean's view is interrupted by more people than he can count. 

"You got the door?" someone asks above the noise, and the response of, "Yes," manages to combine affirmation, incredulous disbelief anyone would even ask, and obvious doubt the questioner is sapient, because Cas likes words like that. "Anytime you're ready, of course; I'll wait."

A crew of Tony's people rush forward carrying equipment and what looks like steel beams and brackets--and is that a blowtorch?--and go to work as Amanda waves Alonzo off. Dropping flat back on the snowy ground, she starts to laugh, great gulps of air, and yeah, he knew she was crazy. 

"Holy shit," she gasps, rolling on her side and looking at Dean with bright, tear-wet eyes. "Jesus, when you're on. You're _on_."

"You said," he pants triumphantly, "I was. A liability. With shitty plans."

That just makes her laugh harder. "And now I know. How to inspire my leader." Wiping her eyes, she grins at him. "Awesome plan. What's next? I'm so fucking in."

Staring at her reddened face, it hits him all at once; they're alive. "It worked." 

That sets Alicia off, who pulls herself up enough to crawl beside him, laughing so hard her arms won't hold her up, and oh God, it's hitting him, too, bubbling up in his throat, and despite the fact he's pretty sure they're surrounded by worried, wary people, he can't make himself stop. They're _alive_ ; holy fucking shit, it _worked_."

"Jesus," he says blankly, thinking of all those goddamn Croats. "We're good."

"No fucking _shit_ ," Alicia wheezes between peals of laughter. "Give me ten, do it again, no sweat."

Then someone is crouching beside him, hand touching his cheek gently, and despite the blur that's the extent of his current vision--tears of _laughter_ , it happens--there's no mistaking the blue of Cas's eyes, fear and relief so strong he can almost feel it himself.

"Hey," Dean says stupidly as a blanket is gently draped around him before a damp cloth wipes briskly across his face, freeing him of Croat whatever, and he wonders if Cas's hands are shaking or if he's just imagining it. "Are you--"

"Shut up," Cas says calmly. Dropping the cloth, he tips Dean's head up, peering at him like he's discovered a whole new country to conquer, then leans forward and kisses him, fast and rough, campaign already in progress; the natives are fine with this, by the way. All desire to laugh fades at the wet slide of Cas's tongue, teeth scouring his lower lip before the kiss deepens again, almost frantic. With an unexpected surge of energy, Dean gets a hand up and threads it through his hair to get him closer, biting his lip and licking an apology with the tip of his tongue, and he's already half in Cas's lap when he realizes two unwelcome things: one, they're outside in the snow (not a dealbreaker right now or ever, come to think) and two--

\--two, his goddamn militia have _filthy_ fucking minds. 

Wolf whistles and laughter are interspersed with suggestions, and he's pretty sure he's not flexible enough to do what Jody just suggested and holy shit, Matt, no one can do that (he thinks). Pulling back reluctantly when he loses the battle against laughter, the look on Cas's face is almost enough to send him right back, but then--

"--really?" Alicia is saying piteously between giggles. "Cas, I know someone warned you about what he's like post-mission, don't even try that one. Three foot rule until we're on safe ground."

Dean's grin widens helplessly at Cas's slow blink. "I've been on missions with him before."

"Before, you weren't there for the after," she says with a giggle, lifting a hand and waving it mid-air. "Theory. Practice. Adrenaline. Fun." 

Looking around, he sees Mel's team coming down from the wall with satisfied expressions (dead Croats, on a guess) Manuel and several of patrol offering blankets and clean clothes to the others and figures they could use a few more minutes of rest. Taking Cas's hand in his, he runs his thumb over the bright red skin of his knuckles in concern; there's a faint sense of swelling, though no open wounds. "Did you punch through the brick? Inquiring minds wanna know."

"Sledgehammer," Cas answers vaguely. "Several of them. Manuel ordered them all brought out while Ana tried to calculate how much C4 we could use without risking…." He stops, which for some reason makes Alicia start laughing again, hiccupping giggles edging on hysteria. Making an effort, Cas straightens, sitting back on his heels, and reluctantly, Dean lets him go, but nothing can make him let go of his hand. "Dean?"

"Huh?" Shaking himself, he follows Cas's gaze to his right hand, which at some point escaped his pocket and is currently fisted against the ground. He just avoids trying to flex it--just thinking it makes his entire palm scream, fingers refusing to even pretend they're going to work--and shakes his head. "Just sore, that's all. Got a report for me?"

"Yes," Cas says after a second, frowning at Dean like it's all his fault, whatever 'it' is (and it probably is). "Alison confirmed your order to keep the gate closed until you indicated otherwise and ordered Ichabod to go into lockdown when the second group of Croats appeared. Everyone assigned to the checkpoints was ordered to lock themselves in the nearest bus and wait for further orders from her or Claudia. Manuel and Teresa went to personally verify all gates and doors were secure and Tony's crews are reinforcing them now. The lockdown is in place for twenty-four hours, but those at the checkpoints assured us they have rations available and will be fine until tomorrow."

"Okay." Dean looks around, alarmed; they're all still sprinkled with Croat blood, and a shower would be good before interaction with anyone (like, say, crazy mayors, no names here). "Uh, Alison isn't down here--" 

"Sean's team was ordered to distract her from coming here herself and risk potential contamination," Cas assures him, a smile in his voice. "She's currently receiving reports on the Ichabod's preparation level from various leaders."

"And us?"

"Joseph's currently on duty at Headquarters coordinating Chitaqua's efforts. Vera went to tell Dolores to meet us here and should be back with them soon."

Right, they got wounded. Dean takes in the distant sight of livestock behind hastily-built fences, temporary buildings just visible and erected at some point last night after the wall went up, because Ichabod doesn't let grass grow under their feet when it comes to using what they've got. Even suddenly materializing walls out of nowhere. The even more distant cluster of buildings over two miles away to the right are all that's left of the original town, and it hits Dean all over again just how big Cas's Wall of Everything is and what it took to make it. Big enough for livestock and a decent size population that needs the space for what he suspects is gonna be some massive future growth. 

Definitely need towers, he thinks, studying the wall. They've gotta survive this; like Alison said, who wants to miss what's next? Towers, at least, and maybe Walter will talk them into getting a moat. Stranger things have happened, and he wants to see if they can beat those. And...yeah, he needs to focus.

"Hellhounds," he says, automatically lowering his voice. "Not sure how many, they were using the Croats as a bridge over the wards."

"Erica did have her moments of inspiration," Cas says neutrally, and Dean nods shortly, not surprised that Cas figured it out. "Not a terrible plan, though somewhat excessive."

"The word is 'overkill'," Dean answers. "Why she needed so many Croats--"

"Do you remember what Alicia said?" Cas asks. "You send Joe when you want to negotiate, you send Vera when you want to steal, you send Sarah when you want to lie--"

"Mel to control a sitch, Amanda if you want it dead, and Alicia if you want to know what's going on," he agrees. "And James to find things. That's a real thing they say?"

"The full version includes sending Nate if you want to kill them with their own meals," he answers with a faint smile before it falls away. "The unexpunged version includes this: you send Stanley if they won't talk, you send Terry if they won't help, and you send Erica if the only thing that matters is that you win, and in none of these cases do you care how they get it done."

Dean licks his lips: being a demon would definitely encourage that kind of thinking. "How many Croats...."

"Haruhi and Rosario counted two hundred and fifty," he answers, and Dean thinks of those dead people on the side of the road and dead Croats here; Erica must have gone up and down the roads recruiting or something and it wouldn't have been hard to get takers. "But they were also distracted helping kill them."

Dean snorts. "We kept everyone entertained, huh?"

"They kept watch for me and provided a narrative," Cas says, flickering a glance toward the wall and Dean sees the ladder a few feet from the door and Haruhi and Rosario standing next to it with a couple of Amanda's other students desperately trying not to stare at them and really not pulling it off. Checking Cas's expression, Dean sees the faint, fond smile as Cas looks at them and hides his grin.

"All right," he says, turning to look at his people in various stages of lying on the ground, "everyone rested up enough to report?" 

"Ugh," Amanda mutters, sitting up and hissing as she grabs for her thigh. "Jesus fuck, why didn't I just finish rehab first? Fuck my twenties."

"You pay for your sins," Dean tells her, briefly losing the battle against laughter again: her _face_. "Great and small…you pay for them all."

Alicia whimpers like she's dying but raises her hand, while Jody and Matt, sitting on Alicia's other side, both give a tired thumbs-up, which for some reason makes Alicia--who's apparently hit the crazy part of post-adrenaline rush--starts laughing again. 

Dean sighs. "God, someone get her a sedative or knock her out or something?"

"I need a reload before we do that again," she says breathlessly before rolling up and pulling her leg to her chest, staring down at her boot like it hurt her feelings before surveying the people around them hopefully. "And maybe a new ankle; anyone got one?"

"Broken?" he asks sharply.

"I don't think so." Frowning, she reaches down and tests it with a hiss. "Maybe a baby sprain at worst; I got off it when I felt it turn, unlike some people who--"

"Shut up?" Like he needs the reminder. "You _fell_ ; that wasn't a strategy, and by the way, anyone ever tell you self-sacrifice is for losers? Pull that shit again, you'll be mowing the entire goddamn state for the rest of the war. No one gets left behind, get me?"

"Understood," she assures him, and over her shoulder, he sees Matt roll his eyes. "Get me a brace and I’m good to go."

"We'll let Vera decide that," he answers, ignoring her scowl and focusing on Andy, slumped against the wall a few feet from the door with his eyes closed. 

Before he can get his attention, Cas says, "Do you have any orders?"

Actually, come to think, he does. "How many people got in before the gate closed?" He's starting to feel lightheaded with adrenaline crash and survival and probably exhaustion that he can't remember how to feel; right now, he could fight that Croat army all by himself, no sweat. Right now, he kind of wants to try. 

"Ten," Cas answers, which is more than he thought. "They were escorted to the infirmary and checked by Dolores. Any with open wounds or visible blood were placed in isolation on the third floor of the infirmary until I can check them; the rest are under observation on the second. I assigned Derek and Vicky to provide the infirmary with assistance should they need it."

"We need to find Micah," Dean says, lowering his voice. "He was out with the volunteers, said something to Alicia--I think he knew Erica was here."

"He was working with her?" Cas frowns, and Dean recognizes the same look on his face that as on Amanda's earlier. "I'll give the order as soon as Dolores has checked all of you. After she's done, Alison agreed that you could all be supervised at Headquarters instead of placed in isolation if there aren't any open wounds until I can verify that you're all clear of infection. Manuel volunteered one of his teams to watch us."

"Thanks, Manuel!" he shouts, getting Manuel's attention, and gets a grin and a roll of the eyes before he turns back to his team. "I could get used to special treatment here."

"In this case, it's practical," Cas replies. "The isolation rooms are being used both for potential Croat victims as well as those who were negatively affected by the catalyst situations and there's no space."

With a sigh, Matt drops heavily in front of Alicia, batting her hands away from the mess she's making of the laces of her boot and unlacing it for her. "Striptease by the Wall of Everything, everyone's invited," he tells Matt, who snorts. Turning his attention back to Cas, he asks, "How long until you can tell?"

"One hour, two at most," he answers. "Haruhi assured me that none of you received more than splatter, and I assume you had the sense to keep your mouths shut and avoid licking your lips."

"We did," Dean starts, but Andy getting to his feet gets his attention. Hesitating, Andy looks toward them, taking a few tentative steps before stopping short, expression weirdly blank. "Hey, Andy, you--"

"Andy?" Alicia asks, all humor stripped from her voice. Shoving Matt away, she stumbles to her feet, ignoring her swollen ankle as she starts toward Andy, who immediately retreats, looking alarmed. "No. Andy, no, you didn't…."

Andy stares at her wordlessly before abruptly shoving up the sleeve of his sweater, and Dean sees the faint tears in it just before the reveals his bloody arm. The wound's a mess, like something--oh God.

"When?" Alicia demands, which is better than Dean's doing right now. " _How_ \--"

"When the door opened," Amanda says tonelessly, staring at him as well. "He shoved me back when Dean shouted. I threw him ahead of me to the door, how--"

"You didn't see the one coming when you turned," Andy tells her quietly "Got him, but I didn't move fast enough, that's all. Should have practiced more."

"Andy…." Amanda starts to stand up and her leg almost immediately goes; fast as a thought, Cas catches her, holding her upright, and she turns to brace her forehead against his shoulder " _Fuck._ "

Alicia hesitates, then straightens, expression smoothing over. "How do you want it?"

Andy swallows, thinking about it, and Dean wonders what the hell they're talking about. "Yeah, I want--I can wait and say goodbye."

"Good," she answers, never looking away from him. "Dean?"

Belatedly, he realizes everyone's looking at him and has no idea what he's supposed to say.

"Manuel," Cas says over Amanda's bent head, "can Andy be isolated at our headquarters? He's not contagious yet, and that's the only open wound. Mel's team will keep watch; we know the precautions to take."

"Yeah, that's fine," Manuel answers, looking at Andy with a carefully neutral expression. "I'll send Dolores when she's done here to explain your options. You got time, Andy; contagion doesn't kick in for at least an hour. Don't do anything stupid."

Andy's head bobs jerkily. "I won't. Thanks." 

Numb, Dean watches, disbelieving, as Andy strips off his sweater and turtleneck despite the cold, leaving him in only a thin, sweat-soaked t-shirt before he starts to disarm, dropping two guns and spare ammunition, two knives, a half-empty bag and bottle, and then crouches to remove his boots before stripping off his belt despite the cold. 

He starts to reach for his jeans, but Cas's "That's enough," stops him short. 

"It's cold," Cas says quietly, glancing at Amanda and carefully easing her back to the ground. Crouching, he hands her his own weapons one by one before starting for Andy, who spreads his arms, brown eyes bleak. Dean's not close enough to hear what he says to Andy when he reaches him, but whatever it is makes him relax, not moving as Cas does a fast and thorough pat down, and finally, Dean gets what's happening.

"Get his weapons and someone get me a first aid kit," Cas says to David, holding Andy's eyes as David collects them all from the ground, expression set in careful blankness, before retreating. Mel joins him holding a blanket, which Cas takes and drapes around Andy's shoulders with more care than necessary, tucking it under his chin, and holds the kit open as Cas thoroughly cleans the wound, and there's no way to mistake what human teeth can do when a Croat's using them. Fuck knows, he's seen it enough now to know.

Glancing around, Dean takes in the expressions of those watching. To those from Chitaqua, at least, this is familiar, but not Cas being the one to do it.

"Manuel's correct; contagion can take as long as two hours to manifest in some cases," Cas tells Andy, cleaning his hands with an offered cloth before stuffing it in his pocket. Reaching out, he smooths away a non-existent wrinkle away on Andy's shoulder. "You won't be alone even then, and I can be with you for as long as you wish. Do you understand?"

Andy nods, licking his lips, eyes darting to Alicia limping toward them, who pauses at Andy's twitch. 

"I'll be there as soon as Dolores checks me out. Wait for me," she tells Andy fiercely before looking at Mel, expression beginning to crack. "Don't leave him alone. I'll be there as fast as I can."

"I won't," Mel assures her, laying a hand on Alicia's shoulder and looking at Cas. At his nod, she smiles at Andy, so natural that Dean's almost fooled. "Come on, jeep's right over there. I think one of Amanda's kids just made a fresh pot of coffee and it's good. We need to trade for more of that."

Andy slowly starts toward her, Mel's team making a loose circle around him as they head in the direction of the presumed jeep, Alicia staring after them until Matt finally coaxes her to sit down on the blanket he spread out for her, Jody joining her, dry-eyed and shocked silent.

Dean sees Vera hovering nearby, watching the small parade scatter people in its path with an expression that tells him just how familiar this must be to them; it's obscurely comforting. What he saw that day with this Dean was the exception, maybe, not the rule; Cas said the guy was too close, already showing disordered thought. Like Debra, maybe it was too close, and they couldn't afford the seconds that might be the difference between one death and everyone's. Like those people at the ward line--

\--and he can't think of that right now.

"Alicia first," he says as Vera starts at the sight of Amanda, fear flashing across her face; idly, he wonders if Amanda noticed and shakes himself. With a visible effort, she nods, changing direction and joining Matt, placing her kit down as she begins to examine Alicia's swollen ankle. Extending a hand to Cas, he has to swallow twice before saying, "Help me up. We need to talk."

As soon as he's steady, he jerks his head toward the wall where Andy sat all that time alone, knowing Manuel's team's watching them. Leaning back against it, he takes a deep breath; it happened right at the alcove door, right before they were safe. Seconds: it was fucking _seconds_. 

"How much did you see?"

"Five Hellhounds," Cas confirms quietly. "They were shadowing the wall. When you were reached the door, however, theCroats fighting at the opening blocked them from getting inside, though I assume you laid multiple salt lines."

Dean cocks his head; Haruhi couldn't actually see Hellhounds (he hopes). "Haruhi really kept a close watch, huh?"

"She provided a very thorough narrative while I destroyed the brick," Cas confirms. "I also told her to observe the ward line, and she told me when Erica showed herself, as well as Amanda's shot."

"Tell me it was in the head."

"Through the right eye," he answers with a flicker of satisfaction. "I assume that you sent Amanda to break her concentration; with that many Croats to control, any lapse, and it would be impossible to get it back."

"She's barely off the rack," Dean says quietly. "There's no way she should have been strong enough to control those Hellhounds, not to mention all those Croats. We both know Crowley wouldn't send her on a collection call, much less give her that kind of power to do it." 

"That doesn't mean she's not collecting a debt," Cas says, eyes drifting to Alicia. "You said Micah warned her about Erica?"

Dean flickers a look at Alicia, one arm draped across her face and ignoring the action going around her feet as Vera carefully checks her ankle. "So this is probably personal."

"I should have let Crowley discipline her after all," he murmurs bitterly. "If I had, there's no way she could have come to earth for a few centuries at least."

Dean squeezes his shoulder. "We need to find Micah and his buddies now. And talk to Carol: somehow, I don't think it's a coincidence we got exes here and Hellhounds."

"If this was contract," Cs says, "she wouldn't have survived."

Yeah, that's the thing. "Makes you wonder why the hell one of them went after her at all."

The arrival of a jeep interrupts them, and Dean watches Derek climb out and almost run to open the door for Dolores, who gives him a patient look and hands him what looks like two large tackleboxes before getting out. Two more people climb out of the back, Vicky and someone he assumes is from the infirmary, each carrying their own kits and looking almost terrifyingly eager to be of help.

"I'll send Haruhi to inform Joseph," Cas is saying. "He and Kamal can begin the search. Dean?"

Dean blinks, realizing he's been staring at the door again: five minutes, Alicia told him despairingly. Five minutes, and I would have been there. It was only seconds: seconds, and Andy would have been safe. 

"I got a few more orders for you," Dean says, pushing off the wall as Dolores makes for Vera and Alicia. "Me and Amanda are going to set a good example and go to the infirmary for our check, and you're gonna be our watcher."

Cas raises an eyebrow and waits.

"How long until Andy…." He stops, realizing something else. "He'll wait for me, right?"

"He'll wait," Cas agrees quietly. Manuel telling Andy about options flashes through Dean's mind and Amanda telling them about the last hours she spent with her student before giving him that shot; the people he shot outside the walls of Ichabod today while they were still people didn't get any options at all because mercy was the only one left. "Mel will keep him calm until Alicia gets there."

"Good." He takes a deep breath, pushing everything out of his mind but what happens now. "Let's talk to Manuel first."

* * *

Dolores smiles at him when he joins her, watching Vera wrapping Alicia's ankle in admiration. "Looks like a pretty bad sprain, but I'd like to x-ray it later, just in case," she tells him.

"How much longer do you need here?" Dean asks, sensing Vera's sudden attention despite no change in her smooth movements. Dolores hesitates, searching his face. "Me and Amanda are gonna go back to the infirmary with you for our check. Cas is coming with, along with Manuel's team to keep us on watch."

"I'm absolutely sure," Dolores says drolly, "that's the only reason Cas is coming along. Vera, do you need me?" Vera pauses to look up, nothing but curiosity on her face before shaking her head. "I'll leave my kits with you. If you need anything else…."

"I'll send someone," she finishes, tilting her head to indicate Vicky and the other woman currently occupied with a silent Matt and Jody several feet away. "I'll come by the infirmary when I'm done if you still want me, but I'm barely back in practice."

"I'd prefer your expertise on a few cases," Dolores says ruefully. "I only worked in general practice before, and my boss was almost as old as his patients. Anyone below sixty is still new territory for me, and you have no idea how much I want to pick your brain after this is over."

Vera laughs, right on schedule. "I'm looking forward to it."

"Let me look at Jody and Matt, and I'll be right behind you," Dolores says, taking his hand and letting him help her to her feet. He nods, watching as she joins her helpers before moving to crouch by Alicia.

"Vera, check on Amanda," Dean says, and waits until she's gone before saying, "Alicia." After a moment, she moves her arm and looks at him, eyes flat. "It was Hellhounds." Her jaw works for a minute, comprehension flaring in her eyes.

She nods slowly, and he starts to get to his feet when abruptly, she sits up, gripping his arm, fingers digging into the flesh deeply enough he thinks there may be bruises later. "What?"

"Micah," she says urgently and her grip tightens. "Find him, get a team watching him. There's something going on and he's part of it."

"We are--"

"Dean, he started running before those people turned Croat," she says flatly, and Dean stares at her for a moment. "He was looking at something else behind me, not that woman. Either he knew about that, or--"

"He saw the Hellhounds." Son of a bitch, didn't see that coming.

"There's something else." Alicia swallows. "Dean, no matter what he says, you can't trust him. He--he was one of the planners, and he was there that--that night."

Dean checks his automatic nod, staring down at her tear-streaked face, frozen. "He was at Cas's cabin?"

"Five shots, including the second. Before bravely running away."

"He told you--"

"No," she answers. "He didn't need to."

Dean tries to make sense of that, but for some reason, it's not working. "So how--"

"Erica, Terry, Luke, Stanley, Darryl, Heath--"

No. _No_. "Stop."

"--Randal, Missy, Micah, Felix, Anabelle, Dev, Brandon, and Cybil. I don't know any other names, just the ones on my team and--and the ones closest to me," she finishes tonelessly. "None of us were told who would be there and we didn't want to know."

Dean looks down at her and finally gets it. "You were there." 

She nods, and finally, he recognizes the look on her face: guilt. Even seeing it, even _hearing it_ , it's--not registering. 

"Why are you telling me now?" 

"Because when you find Micah, he would have told you so you won't trust anything I say," she answers. "What he told me at the ward line--there's only one person he could have been talking about. That demon--she was watching me the whole time, like she knew me. She caught up too fast to what I was doing, and she's the only one that knew--Dean, it was Erica, I don't know how or why, but it had to be."

"Yeah," he says automatically. "It was."

"Yeah. If Micah knew she'd be here, he knows why, whether he was helping her or not. Just--make sure Cas and Vera are protected, and Amanda, too; Erica holds a grudge, she hates them and she hates Cas and Amanda even more because they were the only ones that could kill her and didn't pretend they wouldn't if she stepped out of line even once. The only thing that kept her from a suicide mission when they failed at the cabin was she hated Lucifer most of all, and that's saying something. I know her, Dean; no matter what she's doing or why she's here, Cas, Vera, and Amanda are going to be targets." Her face crumples briefly, but with another breath, it smooths out again. "I won't run, I won't hide, I won't fight, I swear, I get what's coming next. Just--just let me see Andy through this first, please."

She knows what comes next; good, maybe she can tell him what the _fuck_ he's supposed to do with this. "Fine," he says, wondering if he should add something to that, get a team to watch her--and _what_? If she tried to run, they'd probably have to kill her, and--Christ, why can't he _think_? "You're restricted to HQ. I'll deal with you later."

She nods, eyes still closed, and he gets shakily to his feet, scanning the people around them and marking each face in memory before finding on Cas, currently talking to Haruhi, Rosario, and Derek. As he starts toward them, Derek cocks his head, asking Cas something and nodding before tucking a thick dreadlock more firmly into the short ponytail. At Cas's nod, they turn to go, and Cas watches them as Dean joins him.

"We'll wait for Dolores at the jeep," he says, jerking his head toward Amanda before pitching his voice louder. "You think she's up for it?"

"I think," Amanda says clearly, "I'm up for anything."

Somehow, he finds himself grinning by the time they reach her, extending a hand. "We're going to the infirmary."

"I'm _fine_ ," she protests, getting to her feet and bouncing (carefully, he notes) in place. "Vera checked. It's just sore. Just walk it off--"

"Not that." She stills, blue-green eyes darkening. "Five Hellhounds shadowing us by the wall. Time we found out what exactly happened with the sixth.

"I'm in." She waits until they reach the jeep, leaning against the hood and giving the ground a look he's glad she's never turned on him. "Carol's got some explaining to do."

"I'd like to hear it." At the sound of Dolores's voice, he fixes his expression into something more pleasant, smirking at Manuel as makes for the driver's side. Dean politely opens the passenger side door for Dolores, who rolls her eyes, before climbing in back behind Amanda, Cas following him in. As Manuel starts the engine, he leans over between the seats, getting Dolores's attention. "The people who got in the gate before it closed--they all still under observation?"

"Two hours is the minimum for anyone without open wounds or blood sign," she tells him. "They were held at the gate the moment they got inside and taken to isolation, which I assume is your next question; all of them were accounted for."

"What about those who came in earlier?" he asks. "The woman attacked by the Hellhound--Carol? How's she doing?"

"Recovering from surgery," she answers, eyes very sharp, and Dean figures she knows this isn't just small talk. Glancing at Manuel, she waits for his nod before adding, "She won't be up for much talking."

With an effort, Dean reins his frustration back. "What about the people who came with her?"

"They were shaken up but fine. I cleared them a few hours after they came in."

"You talked to them?" She nods again. "They tell you about the attack?"

She raises an eyebrow. "A little, yeah."

Dean folds an arm across the back of the seat and gives her his best smile. "Tell me what they said."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: explicit violence, explicit descriptions of death of children as well as references.
> 
> Notes: I'm using the simplest form of the equations discovered by [Srinivasa Ramanujan](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Srinivasa_Ramanujan), who is the god of calculating ellipses and my personal hero. There are several versions, but some require infinity sets which I can do on paper but not code into Excel VBA (yet), so reference: [Approximations Two and Three](https://www.mathsisfun.com/geometry/ellipse-perimeter.html). I'm using Approximation Three for precision, but honestly, they're not that far off each other. Other options include a reverse Pythagorean that worked but didn't get me any better results, using Parabolic Arc ([here, all my nightmares](http://keisan.casio.com/exec/system/1223291032)) and getting a piece of string and projecting (it was fun). 
> 
> A high precision calculator for an ellipse can be found [here](http://keisan.casio.com/exec/system/1223289167). I used this to check my work, which was a mistake because that got me two long horrible weeks trying to code infinite series into VBA to get more precision. 
> 
> If you'd like a copy for your private Excel VBA functions, email me and I'll send it; it's fairly simple once you break it down.
> 
> Ichabod's walls (all math in feet/miles, here rounded to two decimal places):  
>  **Diameters:**  
>  North/South: 45,000.00 feet/8.52 miles  
> East/West: 28,000.00 feet/5.30 miles
> 
>  **Perimeter (Circumference):**  
>  116,228.10 feet/22.01 miles
> 
>  **Area:**  
>  989,601,687.9 square feet/35.5 square miles
> 
>  **Distance (between gates):**  
>  29040.00 feet/5.50 miles
> 
> The longest distance between a gate and a door or a door and a postern door is 2.25 miles (14528.51 feet); the shortest is 1.67 miles (8833.33 feet). That's because the western side has one door at the center point between each the West and North gates and West and South gates. On the eastern side, there are two postern doors between each the North and East gates and the South and East gates, splitting the distance into third. This is practical: the east side is where the fields and farmland is, while the west side has more roads and Ichabod's farming and livestock has all been to the south, north, and east of town.
> 
> A full list of this (for fun) will be added to the character spreadsheet in case anyone wants to check my work (which it probably needs).


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the spirit of the new year (or something), I shall be honest; between Christmas and my niece contracting strep _and_ discovering the red and bumpy way she's also allergic to penicillin, (and a new breadmaker, fine), it is more than likely I missed something important and incredibly stupid. I did have it doublechecked by Person (who shall remain anonymous because it's really not their fault), but I didn't want to break my word on posting date, and as I said, before dawn counts.
> 
> (Not gonna lie: sometimes I just fall in love with words and try to use as many as possible before forced to a halt by a period that I honestly resent. It happens, usually I correct myself (think about that one in the context of the last three books and word count), but I will be rechecking this again because true love makes you blind and use sentence structure in awkward ways you kind of wish you'd never imagined but then can't remember how real grammar works; what can you do? (Like that one, yes.) You can't help who you love, and that also extends to sentences that shouldn't exist and yet do. I feel none of us can judge, really.)

_\--Day 155, continued --_

The infirmary--now two and half buildings--was put together fast and dirty, but he has to admit, they did on hell of a job. The faded murals of a stylized beach on the walls of the waiting room-slash-triage really work for it, and the wrought-iron cage of the non-functional elevator in the admin section--repurposed into a good size drug cabinet--is goddamn inspired for using what you got. 

Dolores leaves them in the tiny break room in the admin section with a significant amount of pointing toward the attached bathroom. Stripping down in the small, dimly-lit room holding a bench, a toilet, two deep sinks, and a shower, Dean barely gets the water going before Amanda abruptly joins him under the lukewarm spray of the tiniest stall in the world.

For an entire second, Dean freezes, remembering what Cas said about anyone seeing him without a shirt, but right now, he just doesn't give a shit. Of all people in the camp (other than Vera and Ana), she's probably the least likely to have seen or wanted to see Dean naked enough times to take notes, much less care.

"Really?" he asks through an unexpected mouthful of soap.

"Please," she sniffs, reaching for the homemade soap over his shoulder to rub vigorously on a threadbare washcloth and starting to scrub down. "One naked guy's pretty much like any other. Not impressed."

"That's the problem," he protests half-heartedly as she edges by him into the spray, taking the offered soap and getting down to business. There's nothing that says more about his life that he's naked in a shower with a drop-dead gorgeous hunter--seriously, how has Vera not jumped her just on principle?--and he just wants to get the goddamn Croat out of his hair. As she turns her back to him, he sighs, getting a handful of wet hair and pulling it out of the way. "I'll get your back if you get mine."

He hears the smile in her voice when she says, "Deal."

Freshly dressed in clothes that arrived mysteriously from HQ via Haruhi--he assumes wizardry was involved in that kind of speed--Amanda takes an entire second to dry swallow a couple of painkillers before retrieving Carol's chart where Dolores left it for them, scanning it with a tightening of her lips before handing it to Dean to skim for relevant details, putting it together with what Lena said about her arrival and what Dolores told him she got from Carol and her companions. Tracking a Hellhound in the snow, really impressive, but it does make you wonder why the fuck she felt the need to track it since it was obviously trying to get away.

Dolores must have been waiting in the hall outside the break room or something; the minute they're dressed, she comes inside, expression pleasant and unbending as shit. "Can I talk to you, Dean?"

Amanda and Cas look at him, but he's definitely getting the impression they're okay with missing this. "Wait for me in the hall," he says, and Dolores keeps her smile until the door shuts behind them. "Dolores--"

"We have _at most_ a day--maybe two--to convince her to let us amputate," Dolores tells him. "Then it's a matter of time before gangrene kills her. Vera gives it five days, a week at best--"

"I know--"

"Have you ever seen someone die like that?" Dolores interrupts. "I have, more than once, and experience doesn't help. Right now, she's stable, but you keep this in mind; you won't be in the infirmary watching gangrene spread through her, you won't be administering painkillers until they stop working, you won't be listening to her screaming, and you won't be the one giving her mercy in the end."

"If she's the reason those people died at the ward line--"

"I don't care if she single-handedly wiped out half the goddamn state," Dolores says evenly. "It's my job not to care about anything but her health and life. Under protest, I'm allowing you to interview her without my presence, but you try to take her from my infirmary, you'll need your militia to drag me away from the door."

Dean hesitates, taking her in; the brown hair streaked in grey in a messy bun and clear, cool eyes, and he remembers Grant like a slap to the face. "Got it."

"Good," she says with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "You have an hour, but she's in a lot of pain, and I don't know how long she's going to be able to talk to you." Putting back on her pleasant look, she nods at him and turns toward the door, leaving Dean feel like he's just been punched in the belly: painless, but the breath knocked out of him.

Cas and Amanda don't ask him what happened in the room, which he assumes is because they listened at the door like normal people. "Manuel's waiting for us at the back stairs," Cas says neutrally as he falls into step beside him. "He'll be outside the door of Carol's room during the interview."

Fair enough: Dolores doesn't mess around, that's for sure. "Let's get this over with."

Using the hallway from admin to the back stairs, they go up two flights to the second floor isolation and recovery rooms, and down the hall, marking the handwritten numbers beside each door. Finding the right one, Dean doesn't bother knocking when they reach the right door, just goes in. 

Inside, a pale woman, the bright red hair knotted behind her head making her look even paler, lies on one of the few hospital beds they have, one leg wrapped in heavy bandages and surrounded by a plethora of vaguely-familiar monitors looks up groggily before her eyes widen in unmistakable recognition. Cas and Amanda follow him in, Manuel shutting the door behind them and waiting outside out of listening range because unlike Dolores, he trusts Dean not to anything he shouldn't. Which just tells him Dolores is a better judge of character than he thought.

Eyes narrowing, the beginning of her angry protest cut off with the click of the safety on his gun. "What's going on?" she asks hoarsely.

"Check her," Dean says quietly, watching her go still as Amanda passes him to get to the bed. She might have just gotten out of surgery, but she's a hunter and he's not taking any goddamn chances. "Keep your hands where I can see them; do anything I don’t like and this ends now. This range, there's no way I'll miss."

He'll give her this much; she stares at him with a simmering anger almost stronger than the fear as Amanda searches first her, then the bed, tossing out two guns, a knife, and tugging a goddamn stiletto from where it's settled almost invisibly in the loose knot of her hair (Jesus Christ).

"Anything else?" Dean asks Amanda, and she shakes her head. "Now we talk."

"What's this about?" Carol asks angrily. "You don't run Ichabod, Dean--"

"Alison just watched some of her people slaughtered by Croats on the ward line," Dean tells her conversationally, grabbing the one visitor's chair in the room and pulling it to the bed and holstering his gun. "Just so some Hellhounds--minus a member--could get inside Ichabod. You wanna do this with Manuel, he's waiting outside, but I'm telling you now, one of those volunteers was a friend of his and he watched while they were ripped apart. Ichabod's open to all, but the penalty for breaking the rules is exile, and it's carried out immediately."

It's barely a flicker, but that's exactly what Dean's watching for. "I don't know--"

"The missing member of that Hellhound pack," he says. "Why'd you kill it?"

"It attacked me out of nowhere!"

"You were sleeping in the back of the truck when it showed up," Dean interrupts. "Next thing, you were burying your knife in empty air and jumping out of the truck after it, with your knife telling you exactly where it was. Tell me which part of this story sounds like a random attack of a rogue Hellhound, when one, Hellhounds hunt in packs, two, they don't have rogues, and three, even if they did, this one wasn't, since the rest of the pack is here." She doesn't answer, mouth a tight, thin line. "It wasn't random and it wasn't an attack. Not until you made it one."

"It was a Hellhound!" she answers hotly. "Was I supposed to let it get away?"

"Hellhounds don't run away, not unless they have somewhere else there're supposed to be," he answers flatly. "This one did. It didn't attack you, not until you didn't give it a choice, because killing you wasn't in its orders. That's what woke you up; that close, it should have killed you, but it didn't. Why?"

She licks her lips. "I don't--"

"They hunt in packs," Dean interrupts. "They think in pack; what that one found, they all knew the minute it did. They're after someone here, and I think you know who. All you did was almost get yourself killed for someone whose contract just came due. They're not getting away, Carol; the pack's outside Ichabod."

"Croats were sent after us to get that salt line broken so the Hellhounds could get inside," Amanda says quietly. "You remember Andy, right? Andy was out there with us, and he's infected."

Carol's hands clenching in the blankets, knuckles yellow-white under the strain.

"He walked with you to the gate the night you left," Amanda continues. "He's on the clock now, and the faster we get this done, the faster we can get back and be with him. Now help us out here."

"Micah." Dean watches her face, not sure what he's looking for, but he figures he'll know it when he sees it.

Carol's expression doesn't change. "What about him?"

Alicia's voice drifts through his head: _And yet, in all the world, in all of time, in all this migration from Hell, Carol shows up at the same time as Micah and the subdicks two._ "When did you two split up? On your way here? Why?"

She's good but not that good. "What--"

"Ran away while the Hellhound went after you?" he asks with syrupy sympathy, and she flushes; there we go. "His performance a Person Who Runs Away from Danger could win awards; saw it myself outside the walls today--"

"I told him to get away!" she bursts out before she can stop herself, and hey, that was easy. Slumping back, she stares at him hatefully. " _I_ told him it would be--we should come separately."

"Less suspicious," he agrees, adding another mark to Alicia's kind of unsettling record of being right. "Let's start at the beginning; when did you two crazy kids hook up?"

She looks like she isn't going to answer, which is a problem, since it's not like he can make her. Unless he was a monster, of course, and hey, there's a thought. "He showed up a couple of months ago," she answers finally. "No idea how he found me. He said you were killed in Kansas City." Dean can almost feel Cas's attention sharpen along with his own. "He knew why I left, and he said he wanted to warn me, because Cas took over and things were going to get worse fast."

"How?"

"On a guess, vengeance was supposed to be high on the list. And something about..." She makes a face. "Opening Purgatory, something like that."

Dean shuts his mouth hard enough to nearly bite his tongue and sees Amanda's mouth drop open. Words would be good here; too bad there aren't any.

Cas says, "You're kidding." Okay, there's that. "He told you I was planning to open _Purgatory_ and conquer the world?"

Carol stiffens defensively. "That's what he heard. Why?" Then, "How'd you know about the 'conquer the world' thing?"

Dean looks at Amanda helplessly. "Uh--" Something goes there, but what?

"Why else would one open Purgatory?" Cas asks with just the right amount of 'everyone else knows that so how is it you don't, and no, I am not being subtle implying you're stupid', which just proves Cas has a tone for _everything_. And it works: Carol shuts her mouth, looking uncertain. "Did Micah happen to mention who told him something so--" They all wait for it. "--specifically ridiculous?"

"He didn't say," she answers. "He asked me if I wanted to try to get out of the state before it happened. Both of us know how to get past the border."

"You didn't want to." 

"I told him it was bullshit," she says, adding contemptuously. "That would take time from Cas getting stoned and fucking anything that moved."

Okay, then. "Why'd you stay, anyway?"

"I'm a hunter," she says, meeting his eyes without flinching. "It's my job to protect people, and I didn't have to be in Chitaqua to do it. Look, Micah was _paranoid_ , okay? Not that I blame him," she adds with a venomous edge in her voice. "Considering why he left."

Dean cocks his head. "What did he tell you?"

"His crazy bitch of an ex was trying to kill him," Carol answers in disgust, and it's only when Amanda stiffens that he realizes she talking about Alicia. "What, you missed her attempted murder of Micah because he got tired of her shit? Surprise."

"And you believed him?" Dean asks, stiffening at the slice of pain up his arm from the clenched fingers of his right hand. Making an effort, he relaxes his hand, which just barely helps.

"I believe my eyes," she retorts, crossing her arms with a wince that almost but not quite makes him feel shitty for questioning someone who's obviously in pain. "I saw the scar, just missed the femoral artery. Guess he moved too fast for her."

Dean remembers the scars decorating Alicia's hands and wrists, the flash of metal in Alicia's left hand outside the walls, and just stops himself from telling her that Alicia didn't miss. 

"I got her measure a long time ago," Carol continues, stabbing him with a glare. "That helpless act never fooled me." Dean keeps his mouth firmly shut; it's like listening to someone describe an alternative universe version of Alicia or something. "No surprise she was one of Erica's favorites; after Micah left, Alicia was biggest slut in the camp, and I seriously doubt that changed."

Dean looks Amanda back against the wall before she gets any farther than a step, turning his attention back to Carol. On a guess, this is what Alicia meant when she said Carol was judgy; he half-wishes he could have gone to parties she was at and just to see how much he could get her to judge him for in under an hour. He'd make up all new things just for her to judge; it'd be epic. "You and Micah bonded, huh?"

Carol's eyes narrow defensively, and Dean revises that to 'selectively judgy'. "We talked, yeah--"

"So he told you all about how he's under contract?" Dean interrupts, ignoring Amanda stiffening and focusing on Carol's utter lack of reaction; yeah, that's what he thought. "When did you find out?"

"How is that your business?"

"Twenty-six volunteers, Andy, and fuck knows how many Croats that Erica made just to get him," Dean answers, and wonder of wonders, Carol stiffens, looking away. "I'm asking you again: when did you find out?"

"The night before we left to come here," she says reluctantly. "Micah--he drank sometimes, can't blame him," of course she can't, "and that night..." She trails off, wan cheeks flushing dully, obviously aware intimate knowledge of Micah's drinking habits may just be a clue. Then again, this does explain why the Hellhound was sniffing her up. "Anyway, he--he started talking about--he didn't want to tell me because he thought I'd...."

"Judge him for making a deal with the devil?" Carol jerks her gaze back to him, and boy, some people get pissed when people judge their shitty SO's. "Sorry, should be more open-minded, am I right? What was he going for--money, power over the infected zone?"

"They _made him_!" Carol snaps, straightening and immediately crumpling forward with a gasp when it shifts her left leg on the bed. "Fuck off," she hisses when Amanda--who officially has more compassion than Dean does--starts toward her with a worried look. Taking a deep breath, she focuses on Dean again with outright hate. "You have no fucking right to judge, Dean. You know who I'm talking about."

He just might, yeah. "Pretend I don't."

"Your team leaders," she spits out. "Erica took him to the Crossroads herself and put a gun to his head: make contract or die, what the hell was he supposed to do?"

He can almost hear Joe's voice, asking him what he'd do about the people who had a gun to their head. What do you do when someone puts a gun to your head: you say yes. You hide the bodies, keep your mouth shut, and you sign on the metaphorical dotted fucking line. What do you do when an ex-angel starts noticing what's going on: you bury him fast and dirty, because it's not just bodies you're hiding, it's souls you're stealing, _ad maiorem Dean gloriam_ , fucked up be his mission and his name. "What were the terms?"

Carol licks her lips, not meeting his eyes. "Micah wasn't clear. Erica told him it was the only way to win, they all--become better hunters, faster, stronger, all that. Swore he never missed a shot after that."

"That's why," Amanda says suddenly, and Dean sees her and Cas looking at each other.

"What?"

"They were good," she answers, still looking at Cas. "I mean, when I got to Chitaqua and saw them, it was unreal. First time I put one of them on the ground, it was a surprise, trust me."

"It wasn't a surprise," Cas disagrees, and they share a long look before he turns his attention back to Dean. "If Micah was accurate--which is something of a stretch, admittedly--and the terms included 'hunter', that would only apply to supernatural enemies, not other humans."

Dean can't ask outright if they were unnaturally good in the field; that, he's gonna guess, is something he should know. Chuck said that they were sure they could take out Cas, never thought they'd fail, and this just might be why.

"If that's all--" Carol starts.

"It's not," Dean says, looking at her unforgiving face. "No matter how hard you try to piss us off, we need answers, and until we find Micah, you're it. You knew he was under contract, you were fucking _attacked_ by a Hellhound on the way here, so you knew it was due. Why--"

"I didn't know, and neither did he! It shouldn't even be after him yet!" Carol answers hotly. "The contract's not done. You're sitting right _here_!"

Through the rush of blood in his ears, Dean hears Cas ask, "What?"

"The terms were ten years or Dean's death," she answers. "Unless Lucifer was defeated. Dean's alive and it's only been two years; it can't be due yet."

Dean looks up at Cas, but it's Amanda that asks the thousand dollar question: "Contracts can do that?"

"Contracts can do anything," Cas answers, eyes distant. "They're contract; the question is what would a demon allow in the terms, and a reversion clause isn't among them. At least, not in memory." He looks down at Dean, and yeah, demons really are doing new things these days.

"Whatever Micah told you," Dean says, surprised his voice sounds so steady, "you knew when that Hellhound came after you that he was wrong, it was happening now. So why the fuck didn't you at least tell Alison, warn her what was in the cards?"

"So you could get him thrown out?" she demands. 

"Alison's call, not mine--"

"Bullshit," she scoffs. "I _lived_ in Chitaqua, come on! Women fall all over themselves to get in your bed. Why the hell else would you be here if you weren't fucking her? I doubt it's altruistic, come the hell on. Micah would be thrown out before we could explain and he needed protection."

Dean's about to say something really stupid when he accidentally catches Amanda's eye, and her bit makes him pause. Cas's murmured, "Promise me I can be present when you tell Alison that," does the rest. He nods, fighting down the urge to laugh: Alison's _face_.

"Oh yeah," he tells Carol seriously, but he can't stop the grin and doesn't want to; it seems to piss her off even more. "Sex and paneer curry for guarding Ichabod: Alison makes really good deals, am I right?" Carol opens her mouth, but Dean keeps going. "It's great, no lie, but we're talking about _you_ , who thinks sex makes it okay to put a hundred thousand people at risk." Carol stills. "Give or take a hundred thousand, or didn't you notice on your way here the fucking traffic jam of people trying to get here?"

Carol's lips tighten. "Every life's worth saving. That's what Cas said in training, and yeah, I should have figured it was bullshit if he said it, but we're hunters. Isn't that what we're supposed to _do_? Save people?"

Dean just stops himself from commenting on how fast Micah (a hunter) ran away from danger (and saving people that might have survived if he'd just stood his ground), but that's not, actually, her fault. 

"He wouldn't have been thrown out." Carol snorts, saw that coming. "But he sure as fuck wouldn't have been allowed outside the walls right on the ward line, especially with a whole bunch of civilians who had no idea of the risk--"

"I only have your word he was there," Carol interrupts, raising her voice like maybe volume will drown out the entire fact thing. "Dean, whatever happened is on you; if they couldn't cut it, they shouldn't have been out there. Where the hell was Chitaqua, anyway?"

"At the checkpoints, on the wall, running escort for those coming in, helping Ichabod house everyone, and sleeping when they weren't doing that. Along with Ichabod's patrol, those from other towns, and anyone who volunteered who could hold a gun," he answers, keeping his voice even with an effort, and to his surprise, Carol looks uncomfortable. "They were out there because they were trying to help save people's lives, and yeah, they knew the risks, but only the ones we knew about. You're a hunter, you said you were helping defend that town; you tell me how okay you'd be with someone coming there and not telling you they were an active--as in, gonna happen--danger to themselves and everyone around them?" He waits a beat; what happened may not be her fault, but he doesn't care. "This isn't your town, though. How altruistic of you."

"Fuck you." She swallows, bracing herself before meeting her eyes. "So you got enough or should I expect a visit from your fucking team leaders next?"

Dean looks at Cas, then Amanda, who shrugs, eyes on Carol. "Funny story: she kept telling Dolores to throw Vera out of the room. Until she needed surgery, of course; then it was okay. Guess it slipped her mind." Carol looks between them warily. "They're dead."

Carol stills, hands frozen in their twist of the blankets. "What?"

"The team leaders are dead," Amanda says clearly, and Dean reminds himself to find out what the hell Carol said to Vera to make her sound like that. "Five months ago in Kansas City."

"Micah didn't tell you?" Dean asks rhetorically. "So I'm alive, Cas isn't opening Purgatory--at least, hasn't said anything to me, Cas, we should talk later--and the team leaders are dead; you gotta wonder where he was getting his information when all of it's wrong, you know?"

Carol looks at Amanda. "You saw their bodies?"

"I helped wrap them for the fire," she says softly, and Dean remembers the way she watched the bonfire that night in what he'd thought was grief. "And watched 'em burn."

Carol's lips part, then she closes her eyes, slumping back into the pillow in helpless relief, and Dean remembers how many weapons Amanda found in her bed. "You were waiting for them."

Carol covers her face, she lets out a half-laugh, half-sob. "Only the last two years. Stuck in this goddamn bed, all I could think....if they came for me now, I was going to take one of them out with me."

Dean gets up, sitting on the edge of the bed near the foot, feeling her instinctive flinch like a slap. "I’m sorry," he says quietly, nauseated at the distrust on her face. "I swear to you, what happened--it won't happen again. I won't let it."

Carol snorts. "Tell me another one."

"He didn't know about any of it," Amanda says, nodding when Carol looks at her disbelievingly. "Look, they're dead and everything's different now. If you let Vera talk to you, she would have told you--"

"Why should I believe her?" Carol demands. "Or any of you, for that matter? For all I know, you decided to join the holy fucking crusade--"

"They tried to kill Vera," Amanda says incredulously.

"You could have left, like I did," Carol answers flatly. "You didn't, which makes you just as guilty as they were. Poison fruit--"

"Good can never come from evil," Cas interrupts solemnly. "Nor can evil be expiated with sincere atonement. Change is a myth, forgiveness a lie propagated by irresponsible clergymen, association alone determines virtue, and if you wish to debate theology with me after you lost so humiliatingly the last time, this time I'm actually sober."

"Even the devil can quote scripture for his own purposes," she answers, cheeks flushing dully.

"True." Dean doesn't need to turn around to see Cas smile. "But it's not nearly as amusing as when you do it."

She deliberately turns her attention back to Dean. "Is there anything else?"

Getting to his feet, Dean tries to think but his eyes are drawn to her leg again. 

"Fuck you," she spits out, hands tightening in the blankets. "I don't need your pity."

Dean doesn't bother mincing words here. "You get you're going to die if you don't let them take it, right?"

"Without it, what's the point?" she retorts, a flicker of pain crossing her face. "I'll take my chances."

"Bobby took on a werewolf from his wheelchair," Cas tells her quietly. "I believe his words were 'watch and learn, idgit'. I watched and learned that was both impressive and extremely stressful to observe."

"I don't need your advice, either," she retorts. "You got what you came for." That's clear enough, and Dean starts to turn when she says grudgingly, "Wait."

He's tempted to keep walking, but something in her voice makes him turn back around. "What?"

For a moment, Carol doesn't respond, then her expression cracks. "Can I--" She takes a breath. "Can I see Andy? Dean, I left, but that.... I want to see him."

"Does he want to see you?" She flinches, and yeah, that was a low blow; he's pretty sure he'll feel shitty about that someday. "If Andy does, you'll have to clear it with Dolores, but Amanda can take you over." Feeling a reluctant surge of sympathy at the stark look on her face, he reminds himself (again) she isn't actually responsible for most of this. 

She nods shortly, and Dean does something that's not a retreat to the hallway, waiting for Cas to close the door behind himself and Amanda. Manuel tilts his head in question, and Dean shakes his head, watching them hit the stairs before motioning them away from the door. "For someone working that hard to piss us off," he says, because he wants to believe no one is that hostile on baseline, "she was really helpful if we just asked the right questions. Or the wrong ones. Or even ones we didn't know to ask. Anyone but me?"

"Carol's not subtle," Amanda answers. "She wasn't lying, though."

He glances her. "But?"

She makes a face. "If I knew that, I wouldn't have left the 'but' unspoken."

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking. Look, I got a couple of things to do, shouldn't take long," he tells her. "If Dolores clears it, make sure Carol has anything she needs, okay?" Amanda nods. "Tell Andy--tell him I'll be there."

"He'll wait," she says, squeezing his shoulder, and Dean waits until she's down the stairs before he and Cas follow more slowly. 

"Well?" he prompts.

"Not just you." 

Okay, thanks. "She didn't want us to ask if she knew where he was."

"No, she very much wanted us to ask," Cas corrects him. "She was telling the truth in all else so that when we asked, we would also believe the lie. Though I don't know why she thinks someone who allowed her to be mauled by a Hellhound while he ran away would be frank and open regarding his hiding place."

"There's that." As they start toward the stairs again, Dean thinks he has to at least try. "You get Micah could have lied to her about everything, right? I mean...." Something goes there, like 'unbelievable bullshit', but the hell of it, it's not; the kind of people that Dean recruited were fanatics, they hated Lucifer, and their souls were probably a cheap price to pay if that's what it took.

(Erica's entire family was murdered in their own home by her Luciferite boyfriend in that fucker's name. The rack might have been a goddamn relief after that: something, anything, that could--even for a second--drive out watching them die, three days under the body of her dead boyfriend surrounded by their bodies. Anything would better than that.)

"You don't need to try and be reassuring," Cas says, and from his voice, Dean figures Cas is thinking the same thing. "We'll know more when we find Micah. Especially how on earth a hunter seems to be on such intimate terms with a demon that they exchange gossip."

"Does Jeffrey do anything _but_ talk?" Dean asks in disgust. "I'd like to how the fuck he's still alive to do it." He doesn't want to say Hell's (or Crowley's) standards are slipping (actually, he would like to say that), but there's no excuse for Jeffrey. "Look, until we know more, let's keep the specifics on Micah under wraps. Vera, Joe, Kamal, no one else." Which means he needs to talk to Amanda and tell her--like Dean's inexplicable immunity to Croat--that she's got another kind of big secret to keep under wraps.

It occurs to him that if he'd done his goddamn job and defended the alcove himself instead of hanging out at the door like a goddamn civilian, he could have gotten between Andy and that fucking Croat. He got bit, the worst he'd be dealing with right now was anticipating an ice bath in a Jacuzzi tub. Possibly with Cas: relationships are about sharing, and if he's gonna freeze his balls off, his significant other is going to join in for relationship building purposes.

He pauses at the top of the stairs; it should have been him, defending the alcove, protecting his people, getting between Andy and that goddamn Croat. Instead, he was the one slowing them down, the one they were protecting, the one--the one who didn't step in front of a bullet to protect someone else, but who stepped behind someone else so they could take it for him. Like in Kansas City and the confrontation with Lucifer, when Dean goddamn Winchester the former needed to buy some time.

"Dean?" Cas asks, and he remembers watching Cas in that goddamn green jacket walking away to die with the team leaders. To buy Dean time.

For the first time, he wonders why he let Cas walk away on Dean's order like that, why the fuck he didn't stop him himself. He knew--he had to have known--what Dean was doing before he told him, but he still didn't stop him.

"Joe and Kamal should be at Admin by now," he says roughly, starting down the stairs. "Come on."

* * *

Joe and Kamal are there, briefing Alison (thank God), but that just means that Dean got no excuse not to be the one who calls the checkpoints to tell Lee, Damiel, and James and their teams about Andy. Alison silently gives them the unit to take to Andy, which Dean immediately gives to Joe.

"Check in with him before you go," Dean tells Joe and Kamal. "I'll be right there."

"I need to discuss something with them before they go. I'll meet you downstairs," Cas says abruptly, which Dean assumes means 'all the shit Carol told them', which is great, but only until he realizes he's alone with Alison and she looks dangerously close to saying something sympathetic.

And the door's closed. "So--"

"Sit," she says, coming out from behind her desk and shoving one of the chairs toward him. Dean wonders suddenly when she last slept; there are grey circles around her eyes, and he can't be sure with the baggy sweaters and cargo pants that belonged to a seven foot construction worker or something, but it looks like she's lost weight that she couldn't afford to lose. The dark brown hair is barely holding up even secured with two pencils, though one he suspects she just forgot was there and will probably find out when she stabs herself with it later. Taking the other chair, she slumps back to squint at him through her glasses. "Want to talk about it?"

"No," he says firmly. "Nothing to talk about."

She nods in relief and braces her feet on the desk with a sigh.

Okay then. "Should I--" he asks, starting to get up.

"Plant it," she answers, and before he knows what he's doing, he's back in his seat and wondering uneasily if she just used some special mayor-voice on him. "Ten, fifteen minutes, then Cas will think we talked about it."

Dammit, he didn't think of that. "Nothing to talk about."

"I hear you," she agrees sympathetically, tipping her head back against the chair and closing her eyes. "Tony does this to me every time. 'Alison,' he tells me, 'you gotta talk to someone and I'm the only one you're not scaring right now except Teresa, and she's not speaking to you.'" She snorts. "Every goddamn time. Eight and a half minutes, let's at least try and make it plausible?"

There's no clock, which means Dean's got no idea of the passage of time other than the very real possibility it may not be. Alison shifts once, like she's settling in for a nap, and abruptly, Dean remembers she also lost people out there today. He may have killed them himself. Math says he probably did, actually: how many people did he kill today, anyway?

"I gotta go," he says abruptly, getting up before that thought gets too far, but Alison just opens an eye to regard him thoughtfully. "I need to--"

"I know." Getting to her feet, she looks at him for a long moment. "One thing before you go."

He has the doorknob _in his hand_. "Yeah?"

"You gave the order to close the gate," she answers. "I gave the order that it stayed closed. I could have overruled you, and I didn't."

He nods blindly. "Yeah--"

"I couldn't risk it while any of them were still alive," she interrupts, and Dean braces a hand on the frame, trying to remember how to breathe normally. "Before I was mayor, I took shifts on patrol like everyone else, and I still do shifts in isolation. A needle isn't the same as a gun, I know; I've done it with both."

He nods blindly. "I get it."

"Okay," she says mildly. "Time's up. Talk to you later."

"Sure," he agrees, jerking the door open. "See you."

* * *

Stepping into headquarters is like walking into a lucid dream. The lobby seems huge, echoingly empty except for Evelyn, elbows resting on the desk and head bent, straight black hair falling out of a messy ponytail. Looking up, he sees people on the second floor, and jerks his gaze back down, wondering how the fuck it can be so quiet.

"Dean," Evelyn says, voice unnaturally loud, and Dean just manages not to jump, aware of the attention from those on the second floor like something scraping across his nerves. Wiping her eyes, she gets clumsily to her feet, grabbing the log book and clutching it against her chest. "Everyone's checked in," she says quickly, voice cracking on the last word. "He's--uh, okay."

Dean accepts the terrible lie with a nod. "Who's with him?"

"His team, Sarah's, Mel's, Carol, Vera, and Amanda," she answers, voice not quite shaking. "That's all--all he wanted. Everyone else checked in, and the teams at the checkpoints talked to him over the unit Joe brought."

Dean doesn't look at the stairs. "Good."

"Teresa and Tony came by for Ichabod, some others from...." She looks down at the notebook and starts to open it, ruffling through the pages frantically. "Give me a minute, I wrote it down."

"It's okay," Dean tells her hastily; her hands are shaking so badly she almost drops it. "Did Dolores come by yet?"

"When they brought Carol. She talked to Andy and explained how it works here." Evelyn looks away, mouth working soundlessly. "Alicia--she said she'd handle it, she did it, uh--last time, and Vera said she'll do the final check." She finally meets his eyes, red-rimmed eyes bright with unshed tears. "He's ready, Dean. He's just waiting for you."

Yeah. "Where...."

"Top of the stairs, right hall, first door--uh, in your--the room you had before."

He barely stops himself from asking why there. It's not like any room would be better or--stop it.

"Thank you," he hears Cas say, and then--he's not sure how--he's at the stairs and on the second floor before he even remembers how to move, passing those waiting on the balcony and in the hall who don't feel any more real than shadows. Haruhi and Derek, sitting on either side of the door, start to their feet when they see him.

"Dean," Haruhi says blankly. Shifting nervously from foot to foot, she knocks into the door and immediately winces. "Hi."

"Did all your fellow students have the opportunity to check in?" Cas asks her. Why the hell they would; they didn't even know Andy. A lot like him, actually, but at least they have an excuse.

"Yes," she answers, nodding quickly. "Rosario and Vicky are organizing the relay; they're waiting for our word. We'll inform them when--so they can tell everyone on duty." Looking between them, she starts to look worried, then almost sighs in relief as the door opens and Vera comes out.

"Thanks. Go wait downstairs," Vera tells Haruhi and Derek with a smile. "Evelyn could use the help."

He nods when Haruhi looks at him and she jerks her head at Derek before heading down the hall with him on her heels. Dean watches as long as he can before plausible deniability ends and he has to face Vera.

And realizes Vera's waiting for...something.

"You need to disarm," Cas tells him quietly. He's not sure what's worse, that it should have been obvious or Vera's sympathetic expression. As quickly as he can, he removes his gun and knife from his belt, crouching to get the one in his boot. Straightening with everything in his hands, he doesn't have any time to feel more like an idiot; Brenda shows up like an apparition, taking them and murmuring something--what, who the fuck knows--before vanishing again.

"How is he?" Cas asks because Dean's tongue isn't working; neither is his brain, but that's not new.

"Fine," she says, and Dean wonders how the hell she puts on professional like that so easily, wonders if he'll ever be able to pull it off. "Kat's team is with her, Sarah thinks she's in shock, so...."

Cas nods, and now they're both looking at him.

"Dean," Cas starts and right, this part he knows.

"Yeah." He watches his own hand reach for the doorknob, and opening it, he steps inside.

* * *

The first thing he notices is that everyone's in a surprisingly good mood for a wake where the guest of honor's still breathing.

Alicia's laughing, seated on the floor with one leg stretched out in front of her, a new ankle brace visible just below the hem of her jeans, and Matt and Jody sitting on either side of her. Kat is kneeling just a few feet away, her expression set in something almost like a smile if he didn't know what a smile should look like, Sarah beside her with Drew and Phil behind them. To Jody's left, Carol's in a wheelchair with Amanda kneeling beside her, and they're both flushed with what he assumes is recent laughter. 

It's almost enough to ignore Mel and her team to the left of the bed, watching the scene alertly, and as Vera joins them, David subtly shifts enough so he's between her and the room while Mel takes a casual step forward, Liz at her shoulder. Frowning, Dean looks at the room again and sees the wide swathe of space between everyone and that bed, and his mind automatically pulls up a dozen scenarios and how Mel standing right there can easily stop every one of them. Unlike everyone else in the room but Cas, he realizes belatedly, her team is armed.

Taking a deep breath, Dean makes himself look directly at the bed.

It's the one from the infirmary, pushed against the wall opposite the door, bedding stripped to a bare mattress. Andy, dressed in clean, faded sweatpants and a bleach-stained green t-shirt, brown hair still damp from a shower, is seated cross-legged in the middle, arm freshly bandaged and laughing helplessly. He barely looks like he should be out of high school, flushed and smiling, he looks _fine_ , like maybe--maybe....

"He's in the second stage," Cas murmurs, and Dean didn't even realize how much hope he was still carrying around until it dies, just like that. "He's now contagious."

Like he heard Cas, Andy looks at them, wet brown eyes meeting Dean's like a punch to the gut. "Hey, Dean, Cas. You want to--" He looks around the room exaggeratedly. "Not a lot of chairs, sorry."

"Lots of floor," Alicia offers, smiling up at them, eyes dry and clear. Dean makes his way to the space beside Matt, dropping gracelessly onto the rug. "I was reminding Andy of our first mission after we got off local--Cas sent us on salvage to Wichita."

Dean feels his mouth stretching out into what he hopes to God is a smile. "What were you getting?"

"Pillows," Andy says, rolling his eyes as delighted laughter rippling through the room. "Pillows, blankets, lumber--if we could find any--pipes, and a book on plumbing. And roof repair, so we split the difference with a lot of home improvement magazines, half a shelf of engineering books from the first library we saw, and anything with a house on the cover. Could barely fit in the jeep with all that."

"Kyle's team went to Kansas City, same assignment," Alicia tells Dean. "Here's the thing; everyone knew better than to do anything but nod and just go with it back then. You were still out of it most of the time, and Cas was pretty stressed, so just common sense, right? But Kyle.…" She starts to laugh again, bent half over her knees.

"Kyle actually said…" Matt shakes his head, grinning. "He actually _told_ Cas that he was a hunter, not a plumber."

Dean looks at Cas, who seems to be really fascinated by the ground, then at Andy. "You know, I never did ask how home improvement month went. What happened then?"

"Cas dismissed everyone, and Kyle sulked, as he does," Andy answers, eyes dancing. "Anyway, two days later, everyone gets back to camp, and Cas calls a camp-wide meeting, and everyone--except Kyle, because he's like that--showed up early for good seats. Alicia dragged me out of the shower so we'd be right up front. We were all gathered at your porch, and Cas comes out and reminds everyone to turn in their reports by dawn and then--" He pauses for breathless chuckle. "He asks how many people would be interested in becoming plumbers as well as hunters."

Dean glances at Cas again, but that floor is really interesting. "And?"

"I sprained something raising my hand," Alicia says gloatingly. "First, by the way. That voice, it doesn't matter what he's asking; answer's yes, please."

"And dragged mine up when I didn't move fast enough," Matt adds wryly, leaning back on one arm and giving Alicia a fond look. "Jody kicked Andy until got with the program."

"Mark's and Vera's teams were right behind us," Alicia says, looping an arm around her upraised knee. "Vera was actually watching from the doorway and excused herself for important Dean business before Cas caught her laughing."

"Dean needed something," Vera objects. "I had a sense."

"Of humor," Amanda says tauntingly. "I looked through the window, Vera; you fell off that goddamn armchair you were laughing so hard."

"Lies."

Despite himself, Dean feels himself grinning. "I remember that," he says, and Vera sighs, mouth twitching. "Off the chair and onto the floor. You said it was the fever fucking with my head."

"And you," she says smugly, "believed me."

"And Cas said," Andy says, grinning hard enough to hurt, "that everyone who volunteered should stay for a few minutes, and right then, Joe shows up and says he found more lawnmowers in Kansas City and they were ready to go."

He can actually _see this_. "How many?"

"Kyle's team--I felt bad for them, they didn't deserve suffering for Kyle's dumb ass--and…" Alicia squints, lips moving soundlessly. "Fifteen in all. Weirdly," leaning forward, she looks at Cas, "exactly as many people as lawnmowers."

"I didn't tell Joe to find fifteen," Cas objects, entering the conversation for the first time and giving Alicia a narrow look. "I simply told him that double digits would probably be necessary, and greater than ten preferred."

Dean looks around the room. "How long--"

"While those who volunteered got three days off duty to learn to be plumbers, the rest would take care of the flora problem," Andy laughs. "Cas didn't even have to ask about roof repair; once the plumbing was done, everyone was a junior carpenter in training. Idle hands are the lawnmower's playthings and everything."

"We were getting kind of nervous when we got to the last roof, but by then, you were staying awake longer and kept him entertained," Amanda picks up, smirking in Cas's direction. "And both us and Vera's medical texts were safe from Cas needing something to do with his time."

"No, _you_ were safe," Andy tells her. "The rest of us were sentenced to training under your iron fist because we were out of practice." Andy looks at Dean. "Or more mowing. Something about manual labor being good for you."

"It builds character," Cas says solemnly. "It also creates a pleasant living environment, encourages a work ethic, avoids the potential for uncontrolled fires, and far more importantly, removes you from my immediate vicinity before you began to annoy me."

"It's almost like he likes us," Alicia remarks, her eyes are on Andy, whose expression turns wistful, and like that, Dean forgets how to breathe. "Andy? You with us, kiddo?"

"I'm good," he answers, smiling at her and then looking at Vera. "Got some sheep to count."

Kat makes a choked sound, but Alicia's smile doesn't change as she gets to her feet in a single motion, and watching Vera bend over and pick up a case, Dean realizes what's about to happen. "Sheep?" he asks, wondering where he heard that before. "What about sheep?"

"You never heard?" Andy asks as he eases himself down, raising his arms to grab the edge of the mattress. As Vera kneels beside the bed, Dan and Lyz casually circle to the other side of the bed and Mel and David move unobtrusively closer, close enough to--do something, he thinks hazily. "It's a thing, it's stupid."

"It's not stupid," Alicia argues, kneeling beside Vera as she opens the bag. "Don't knock it or you're gonna feel stupid when you see her."

Dean keeps his smile; right now, he's not sure he can stop. "Who?"

"The girl with the sheep," Matt tells him, eyes fixed on Alicia and carefully moving closer, and in his peripheral vision, he sees Sarah doing the same thing behind Kat, who looks frozen, staring at Andy with wide, blank eyes. "Kellie--she who thought it would be a good idea to teach Cas about healing crystals--"

"Oh God," Amanda moans. "I almost forgot about that, thanks, Matt. The cabin was a death zone for your feet for _weeks_."

"Kellie was very pleasant," Cas says, a vague hint of defensiveness in his voice. "And very well studied regarding her subject."

"God knows you were a good student," Amanda tells him mockingly. "Crystals all over the cabin, trying not to wonder what the hell you two were doing with them…."

"Yes, thank you for the reminder," Cas says, not quite interrupting. "What about Kellie, other than her fondness for quartz?"

Amanda snorts, but her expression darkens. "After that ambush near Emporia, when Ray was killed," she answers, reaching up to touch her shoulder when Carol stiffens.

"I remember." Something in Cas's voice makes Dean wonders what exactly happened on that mission. "Ray had already bled out by the time they were located in one of the dormitories at the university."

"Kellie was pretty out of it when we found her," Amanda says, licking her lips before forcing a smile. "Two days alone with a concussion will do that to you. Probably should have been seeing Elvis or aliens, but this is Kellie we're talking about. She sees...sheep."

"She didn't say she saw sheep," Alicia counters, watching Andy. "Well, maybe _a_ sheep, fine, but it was mostly about the girl."

Dean sees Vera take out a bottle, eyes narrowing as she reads the label. "She saw a girl with sheep?"

" _A_ sheep, _maybe_ ," Alicia answers, voice beginning to sound strained. "She said she was trying to stop the bleeding, and then a girl came up beside them, and she told Ray--" 

"To get up," Matt says when Alicia's voice cuts off with a ragged swallow. "Because he had sheep to count, and he'd be surprised how many were waiting for him." 

"Kellie was a flake," Carol says disparagingly, wiping her eyes discreetly.

"A flake," Amanda agrees lightly. "Who beat two ghouls to death with the butt of her rifle when she ran out of bullets while rocking three broken fingers, a broken arm, a second degree concussion, and a dead teammate." Carol shuts her mouth. "Christ, that room...blood everywhere, five dead ghouls, and there's Kellie, sitting against the wall with her twenty-two in her good hand and Ray in her lap, grinning at us like--very Kellie." Amanda giggles, eyes too bright. "She kept asking us where the girl went. Wanted to thank her for keeping her awake until--until we found her. Our sheep girl was a Scheherazade, apparently, told her stories of all the ways you could kill a demon with a crook, it was weird." Amanda's voice changes, and he sees her frown as she looks at Vera. "And useful, now that I think about it."

"Gotta admit," Vera says wryly, but Dean sees her eyes flicker from Amanda to Cas with an unreadable expression, "wouldn't mind my near-death hallucinations being that helpful."

Amanda nods, wiping her eyes quickly. "So say us all."

"Told you," Andy says to Dean, mouth beginning to tremble. "It's stupid."

"No, it's not," Dean hears someone say, and realizes from the sudden attention of the room that it was him. 

Feeling not quite there, he gets to his feet and crosses to the head of the bed, hip checking a startled Mel and David out of his way. Over Vera's shoulder, he sees Alicia putting on a pair of surgical gloves before taking the bottle and needle from her. As he watches, she pulls the plunger, clear liquid beginning to fill the reservoir, hands rock-steady, then he looks down at Andy, who's watching the same thing.

"Andy, look at me," he says softly, and Andy jerks his gaze up to him. This close, he can see the fear he can't quite hide, not anyone. "The girl with the sheep? When you see her--"

"It's just a story," Andy whispers, knuckles yellow-white around the edge of the mattress, and God, he barely looks older than Jeremy, how old is he anyway? Another thing about Andy he doesn't know, like he doesn't know about Andy's family, if he has any, if something happened to them, if that's why he came to Chitaqua, if that's why he stayed. Christ, Andy's dying for him and he doesn't even know his fucking last name.

"That's what you think now. Just get up when she says to," Dean says, dropping into a crouch to look into Andy's surprised eyes. "Dude, no lie, that fucking crook stings. Got it right in the ass."

Vera frowns, glancing at him and then up as Cas joins them, but he can't look away from Andy's pale face. 

"You saw her?" Andy whispers, eyes wide with a vague hope it hurts to see.

"Almost died during the fever, remember?" Reaching out, he pulls Andy's left hand free of the mattress and squeezes it, aware of Vera's gasp. Cas murmurs something he can't quite hear, but the ripple of command in his voice sends Mel and David a reluctant step back. "When you turn around, you'll see a lot of sheep--you have no idea, they're fucking everywhere."

"You're fucking with me." Andy squeezes his hand, tongue darting out to lick his lips as Vera ties off the tourniquet and Alicia moves closer; quickly, he focuses on Andy's face again. "You really--"

"When you came to Chitaqua--when you became a hunter--you said yes," Dean tells him, dimly aware his fingers are going numb from the grip of Andy's fingers. "To saving people's lives, just because you could. I'm telling you that, and Ami's going to show you what your yes meant; they're not sheep, not one of them. Remember that, and when she tells you to stand up, you do it. It'll be easy; you never knelt in your life."

Andy nods, licking his lips. "Okay."

"Don't be afraid," Dean whispers, squeezing Andy's hand as hard as he can. "You're not alone."

"We're here," Alicia says as Vera strips off the tourniquet and takes the needle from Alicia's shaking hand. Reaching out, Alicia touches his cheek, smiling at Andy as he nods, eyelids starting to droop; belatedly, he realizes that Kat's beside her, one hand resting on his hip, mouth trembling. "You have a lot of sheep, Andy: better get going."

"I love you," Kat whispers, squeezing his hip and holding onto her smile with everything in her. "Okay?"

Andy smiles at her before he nods sleepily, eyes starting to close before they fix on a point in the distance with a brief, startled look, mouth opening as if he wants to say something before his eyes slowly fall shut. Dean feels the grip of Andy's hand loosen, pressure vanishing entirely between on breath and the one that doesn't follow, but he can't make himself move, not yet. Cas's voice abruptly cuts off, a murmur he didn't even realize he was listening to until it's gone, and somehow, that's when he realizes it's over. 

Kat's smile wobbles, hand clamping down on his hip. "Andy?"

Vera leans over Andy and then says quietly, "Amanda, get the time for me." 

"Andy?" Kat says again, staring at his face like maybe if she just looks hard enough, he'll open his eyes. "Did you hear me? Andy?"

"Kat--" Alicia whispers.

"He was going to say something. Andy?" Dean forces himself to fold Andy's hand against his chest, staring down at the slack face, lips still parted. From the corner of his eye, he catches Matt bent over beneath Jody's arm, but then Kat makes a horrible sound, springing forward, and Alicia just catches her before she lands on Andy's body. 

It's like watching a slow-motion movie or something; unreal, everything takes forever, and he can't remember how to move.

"Kat," Alicia starts, and twisting, Kat twists around, arm drawing back for a punch that takes hours, Alicia slowly dodging back, but he can almost hear it connect with solid bone in what will probably be one hell of a bruise. Kat's left drop to her hip, and finding nothing but an empty holster, she goes for Alicia's throat with sobbing cry.

Over Cas's shoulder--when did he move?--Dean sees Alicia drop back onto the floor, too controlled to be anything but reflex. Wrapping an arm around Kat's waist, she rolls them over, coming up to straddle her hips, one hand on her chest. Sarah appears like magic, pinning Kat's wrists above her head, Drew drops flat on her legs, and Dean sees fresh blood on Kat's fingers and beneath her fingernails. 

"Kat," Sarah says calmly, but Kat screams something and tries to buck Alicia off, face red as tears leak from wild brown eyes. Sarah's knuckles go white before she shifts, kneeling directly on Kat's wrists and shoving Kat's shoulder's back to the floor with both hands. "Kat, listen to me--" Her voice is drowned out by another scream.

Dean belatedly starts toward them and finds out Cas can still be an unmoving wall when he wants to be, hand on his hip like a goddamn clamp. "Don't move," he says in the same voice he used on Mel earlier, and Dean doesn't.

Looking around the room, Dean realizes no one's surprised. Dan and Jody are in front of the door, David standing in front of Vera, one hand reaching back to rest against her hip, Mel and Liz between the bed and the rest of the room, Phil and Amanda protecting Carol in her wheelchair, and Matt hovering close enough to drag Alicia away if Sarah loses her hold on Kat's arms. He didn't even see them move.

They weren't just not surprised; they were _ready_. Cas getting Vera's gun when Debra died wasn't just about being fast; he'd known it might happen, because it must have happened before. 

"Alicia?" Vera asks from behind David.

"Hold on. Sarah?" Alicia asks breathlessly, and when she lifts her head, he sees bloody scratches on her neck and the beginnings of a spectacular bruise high on one cheek. At Sarah's nod, Alicia says, "We got her. Come on."

"Matt," Vera says as she approaches Kat, David pacing her, "I'm going to need your help."

"He wanted to tell me something! It was too soon, he wasn't ready!" Kat sobs up at Alicia as Matt kneels by Kat's shoulder, pinning her upper arm before dragging up her sleeve. "He wasn't ready, there's still hours--!"

"He was ready," Alicia tells her, soothing voice at odds with the obvious strain of holding Kat down, bringing down her full weight on Kat when she tries to buck again. "Deep breath, Kat, you know how this goes--"

"You were his leader!" Kat screams as Vera lowers herself down between Matt and Sarah, and Dean can see the words hit Alicia like a punch. "You were supposed to protect him!"

"Okay, now hold her still," Vera says, waiting until Matt reaches over, his other hand closing on Kat's forearm so her entire arm is stretched flat against the floor. Expertly, Vera ties off her arm and sets a finger against her elbow, expression intent, then holds out a hand for David, who hands her a needle. In one motion, she slides it in below her finger and pushes the plunger. "Got it," he hears her say between Kat's hysterical sobs, taping gauze into place and getting up and letting David nudge her back. "Thirty seconds, count starts now."

"Drew, Phil, get ready," Sarah says, not looking away from Kat. "Sorry, Alicia, she moved too fast for me."

"Like a cat, that's our Kat," Alicia agrees, watching Kat's face as well. "Deep breath, Kat, come on. It's gonna be okay." Kat glares up at her, face red and twisted in grief and hate, but slowly--it feels like forever--Kat's movements become more sluggish, less coordinated. "Vera?"

Vera's lips move silently as Kat begins to still, sobs fading as her eyes falling half-closed. "Go ahead."

"Kat, your team's gonna get you somewhere more comfortable, okay?" Alicia says as Matt climbs to his feet and extends a hand to her. Phil goes to crouch at Kat's side as Drew gets up to take his place on her other side. "It'll be okay."

Dean sees Kat's glazed eyes focus on Alicia, but it happens too fast to even warn her; as soon as she's free of Alicia's weight, she twists, jerking her knee toward her chest and in a final burst of energy, kicks Alicia in the abdomen hard enough to throw her back against Mel with a breathless grunt, face drained of all color. For a horrifying second, Mel looks in danger of overbalancing and both of them falling onto Andy's body, but Lyz steadies them.

"I'm gonna...kill you," Kat slurs, trying to spit before collapsing back against the floor, eyes already swelling as Drew belatedly pins her legs down again.

"Fuck, Drew, _keep her down_ or I'll knock her out myself!" Matt snaps, dodging past them to help Mel lower Alicia to the floor. "Alicia--"

"Fine," Alicia gasps, shaking off Matt's hands, but when she tries to sit up, she can't quite swallow the gasp.

"Don't move," Vera orders, kneeling across from Matt and helping him get Alicia flat. "Hold still or you get a dose of what Kat got," she snaps when Alicia tries to sit up again, and with a sigh, Alicia lies back again. Tugging up Alicia's flannel and t-shirt before unbuttoning her jeans, Vera says, "Sarah, get Kat out of here, restrain her if you have to. I'll be over in a few minutes to check her, okay?"

Belatedly, Dean realizes Sarah's looking at him. "Yeah, go."

"We're on 209," Sarah tells Vera, then motions for Phil and Drew, supporting a semi-conscious Kat between them, to precede her to the door and following them out.

From here, Dean can't see what Vera's doing, but spending weeks under her iron medical fist and then most of a night with her watching Cas means he can tell by the set of her shoulders that she's worried but not _worried_. She murmurs questions to Alicia, which Alicia answers with a shake of the head, teeth gritted together, but the last one ends with a strangled gasp she can't stop.

"That's what I thought," Vera says finally, sitting back on her heels. "Infirmary, now."

"I'm. Fine," Alicia grits out and it's only Matt's hands on her shoulders that keep her down, though on a guess, sitting up would send her right back down. "It's nothing."

"Just some x-rays to make sure," Vera answers. "You were one of the few and proud who got Darryl clean and sober for almost a day to put you back together. It may be the only decent thing he ever did at Chitaqua, so let's not fuck up his record, okay?"

"I'll go with her," Matt says, frowning down at Alicia when she starts to protest. "Due to the--physical...condition of my leader, this is a coup--"

"Oh God," Alicia mutters, squeezing her eyes shut.

"--and as conqueror--usurper," he says with a trembling grin as Alicia opens her eyes again to glare at him, "of our team, my orders are, uh, you go to the infirmary."

"No," Alicia says stubbornly. "I gotta stay here, it's fine."

"Alicia," Cas says, "if I have to make it an order--"

"I can't," she says between her teeth, "go, okay? Just gonna go to my room, it'll be okay"

It's only when she flickers a glance at him and then away that Dean remembers what she told him earlier, but it's as unreal as everything else today. He stares at her, trying to make it work, then gives up: later. Or at least not now.

"You're going," he says shortly. "That's an order. Matt, Jody, stay with her." He looks around the room almost frantically; Cas still blocking him (why?); Mel and Lyz still by Andy's body on the bed; Amanda talking to a quietly sobbing Carol; Matt and Alicia and Jody and Vera on the floor; Andy's body on the bed. A liability, Amanda said, and now Andy's dead. Andy died for him, Andy is _dead_ , and he doesn't even know how old he is. Was.

A flare of white-hot pain shoots up his right wrist to the elbow when he tries to unclench his right hand, muscles too cramped to respond and spasming every time he tries. Even through that, he can still feel the impression of an invisible hilt against his palm.

"Dean?" he hears and thinks that may not be the first time. "Are you--"

"Fine." He needs to get out of here _now_. "I'm gonna go talk to Manuel about the search," he adds and is already out the door before anyone can answer.

* * *

The topography of grief is too new to not feel its echoes: the memory of Dean's death, of Bobby's death recalled in stunning detail, as fresh as the moment he looked upon their bodies, layered with the more immediate loss today. Looking around the stricken room, Amanda and Vera and Carol, Alicia and Matt and Jody, Melanie's team uncertain, he stops his instinctive step toward the door to follow Dean; in Dean's absence, his responsibilities lie here. Whatever they are.

Gaze lingering on the still figure on the bed, he tries to think what happens next; this part he's never known in more than the broadest outlines.

"Melanie," he says. "Haruhi and Derek are downstairs with Evelyn. Tell them to spread the word to the others and report to Alison and Claudia personally." 

At Chitaqua, the burnings have always been done at dusk, bodies taken to the cabin at the edge of the camp, prepared by--someone, he's not sure, but apparently Amanda was among them the last time. How does he not know this? Amanda's observations of the aftermath of that first attack on Ichabod linger in his memory; the ritual of burning he knows in both theory and practice, but there are other things, before and after, that Alison did, Claudia did, that if they didn't--couldn't--ease the horror of grief, eased the lives of those confined within it. 

"Also, request from Ichabod we--that we request their assistance with Andy's remains," he adds. "I think Callisto is the one who oversees those who care for the dead; her help would be appreciated."

"Got it." Nodding at her team, they leave, reducing the number of people he needs to see to.

Going to Alicia, he speaks to her quietly before stepping back to allow her team to see to her and approving very much of Matt ignoring her attempts to rise on her own and simply picking her up while Jody scowls Alicia's protests quiet. She is perhaps the only person who's ever managed to do that, he reflects as they leave. 

Turning his attention to those remaining, he swallows: Carol's silent, helpless grief, Amanda's attempts to offer comfort in her own grief and guilt, Vera attempting to help both with limited success. Catching her eye, he crosses the room, crouching, aware that Amanda and Carol both are oblivious to his presence.

"There's a break room just down the hall," Vera whispers, voice thick. "Some old couches in there, enough room for anyone who wants to…you know. When they get off-duty, whatever."

That part, at least, isn't unfamiliar. "Excellent idea, thank you; please see that everyone knows. Also, could you take Carol in your charge while she's here; I don't know how long Dolores gave permission for her to be here."

"I'll find out." Wiping her eyes, she murmurs something to Amanda before rising to her feet, practiced composure fully in place, and he watches her expertly maneuver her tiny group toward the door. Castiel follows them out, shutting the door firmly and instructing Alonzo, one of those waiting in the hall with his team, not to open the door to anyone without his permission.

What next: he can't afford uncertainty with Alonzo--with anyone--watching, and so finds himself going down the hall, locating the room Sarah's team appropriated and knocking perfunctorily before entering. He's greeted with the startlingly sight of Sarah sitting cross-legged at the head of a sleeping bag, dark blonde ponytail immaculate as always, face expressionless but with Kat's head in her lap, one hand stroking soothingly through the mess of light brown hair spread across her thigh.

"She's out," Sarah says quietly, eyes flickering toward the other two members of her team sitting on a sleeping bag nearby and the pile of weapons in the far corner, blocked by two backpacks and both their bodies. The lessons learned from Millie, from Trey, are not ones they can forget, not when so many of them have lost so much that even a single loss more can be too much: certainly not when they're also soldiers and don't need weapons to be dangerous. Approvingly, he marks the easy distance between Drew and Kat, the position of Sarah's body allowing her to easily restrain Kat for the few brief seconds of potential hysterical strength before Drew can be at her side. 

"Do you require anything?" he asks, pitching his voice to avoid disturbing Kat.

"Ask Vera to bring a sedative when she checks in. We'll clear the room of weapons before she wakes up."

He looks at Kat's pale, tear-stained face; she looks small and infinitely fragile, which means absolutely nothing, not with any of them. "I will."

"Kat's never been calm about anything in her entire life," Sarah says, a faint flicker of--something--in her voice. "When it really hits, it's going to be difficult."

He licks his lips, controlling the fresh spurt of grief with an effort; those long weeks after Dean's death were forever, the memories still too raw to touch with impunity. "Who else is Kat close to who would be appropriate to relieve you?" A faint line appears on her forehead which he's come to interpret as Sarah in the throes of disagreement. "There's no reason to exhaust yourselves unnecessarily when there are others available to assist you."

Sarah considers that before nodding. "Amanda, Melanie, Sheila, Dane, and Kyle," she answers immediately, and he just stops himself from raising his eyebrows at the last name. "Their relationship is amicable now, and he's very good at being sympathetic."

That much is true, he supposes sourly; Kyle is uncomfortably skilled at making himself very agreeable to those in distress when he makes an effort to do so. "Kyle's currently assisting in the search, but I'll speak to the others immediately. Is there anything else?"

"No, thank you," Sarah answers coolly, but the easy rhythm never falters, slipping down to stroke with infinite gentleness down Kat's back. 

"Vera suggested the second floor break room as a meeting place," he adds, not sure what else to say or if there is anything. "I've requested assistance from Ichabod, they have certain customs after a Croatoan death that may be of benefit." Frustrated with his own helplessness, he looks at the limp body stretched out on the cot. "Please keep me informed of anything she might need, and I'll see that she gets it."

Very faintly, Sarah nods. "We will. Thank you."

* * *

In retrospect, it's almost embarrassing that after five years on earth--over two of them mortal--it only took two weeks helping Dean in his first, initial attempts to lead Chitaqua that he realized something that should have been self-evident: he needs work. Not simply something with which to occupy himself as a way to fill the endless hours and mark the progression of time, but _work_ , necessary work that must be done and must be done by him.

Dean, however, didn't need to teach him the requirements of duty; that, he always knew, from the moment of his creation.

Leaving Sarah and her team to their vigil at Kat's side and their own grief, Castiel sets aside everything but the requirements of his position in Dean's absence, the list of things that must be done, letting them scroll through his mind like the checklists he used to create for Dean. 

He checks on Amanda and Carol in the second floor breakroom, sending members of the militia drifting in the hallways to acquire more comfortable furnishings before returning to the lobby to assist Evelyn at the front desk, verifying who's checked in and who is still on duty. Melanie returns with both Callisto's condolences as well as her assurance that she and her team will arrive to care for Andy's remains as soon as they've finished preparations.

Haruhi and her team arrive almost as soon as he's dismissed Melanie to the second floor, Britney's team in tow. He directs Leon to usher a shaky Evelyn from the desk and to the second floor while Mads taking her place with a determined expression. Britney and George--whose nephew Finn was killed in the earlier attack on Ichabod and took his place in Amanda's class--he sends to the mess to see what is available for consumption that isn't alcohol, though he doubts anyone will be much interested in anything else.

When he's done, Haruhi approaches, her team giving the impression that nothing in this world is as important as standing very still and looking alert. 

"On behalf of Ichabod, Alison and Claudia send their sympathy and support," Haruhi recites soberly. "And on behalf of themselves, of course."

"Of course," he agrees, startled by the impulse to smile when Haruhi (and her team) relax, formalities complete.

"She also said to tell you all Chitaqua members are to consider themselves off duty until dawn once their current shift is done," she continues, adding before he can argue, "That's standard; all the families of those who lost people are off tonight. No worries about coverage: we have more than enough people for wall duty, since pretty much everyone wants an excuse to hang out on the wall." She smiles faintly. "Can't blame them: it's an awesome wall."

He nods his thanks (and agreement; it is). "Is there anything else?"

"Yes," she says immediately. "Don't worry about Dean; Joe sent word to Alison to tell you that he has him at the YMCA and wouldn't let him look at any of the street maps until he ate a sandwich while he was watching and he did."

Joseph is to be commended for his perspicacity. "Excellent." After a moment, he realizes she's waiting for something and wonders what. "Good job."

"Thanks," she answers, biting her lip. "So...." He waits, curious, as she shifts her weight from foot to foot before finally asking, "Anything you need us to do?"

Actually, yes. "How well do you know Microsoft Excel?"

* * *

He introduces Victoria (she used to do something called 'project management', though the project in question wasn't entirely clear) to the patrol spreadsheets, which she seems to intuitively understand (unlike some people he could name). After he's certain that she understands how to use it (and after making a backup copy, of course), he leaves her to adjust the schedule appropriately: remove those teams at the checkpoints as well as Alicia's pending Vera's decision, make note of the possibility of removing Sarah's team as well, and adjust the remaining teams to fill the gaps both actual and potential. Derek is charged with organizing the reports, currently in a disgraceful state, into the clearly marked boxes by team and date while Haruhi and Rosario are sent to the YMCA for any potential updates on the search (and unspoken: Dean, of course). 

Jeremy arrives soon after he returns to the lobby to check on Mads, eyes red-rimmed and face blotchy. "Is he--"

"Yes," Castiel says quietly, and isn't sure what startles him more; his own reach for Jeremy when his face crumples, or Jeremy leaning into him. After Jeremy spoke to Andy, Vera sent him to complete his shift at Volunteer Services. While Castiel didn't ask for her reasons, he can easily speculate, as they probably match his own. If Jeremy stayed here to wait, he would have insisted on being in the room, and a person infected with Croat is always a danger to others. As Kat proved, those grieving can also be just as dangerous. 

"It was peaceful," he murmurs against the dark blonde hair, tightening his hold at Jeremy's shudder; at Chitaqua, he's witnessed what happens when they're not, another reason to exclude him: that isn't what his last memories of Andy should contain. "Amanda's in the second floor break room with some of the others; would you like to join them?"

Jeremy nods against his shoulder before taking a deep breath, composing himself, and Castiel escorts him upstairs and into Amanda's care, lingering long enough to assure nothing is needed before returning downstairs.

And sees Joelle rise from one of the chairs, holding a large container and looking at him as if he should know what to do with it.

"Food," she says, correctly interpreting his blank expression. "Where should I put it?"

"The mess," he says automatically, leading her to the kitchen where Britney and George take it without surprise, adding it to the table on which they've assembled a surprising amount of consumables (and he notes, alcohol has a table of its own). The tradition of offering food to the bereaved is one he knows--though for obvious reasons has never experienced--but he's also aware of how much Ichabod's residents have donated to the general messes; this may very well represent the last of their own private stores.

"We can't take this," he says abruptly as Britney unwraps a massive pan of spicy lemon rice mixed with fall vegetables. Britney freezes, looking at him worriedly, but Joelle--doubtless due to Jeremy's influence--seems unbothered.

"You can," Joelle tells him confidently. "And will. Better a dinner of herbs with friends than a fatted calf in solitude."

He raises his eyebrows. 

"I can't remember the quote, sorry," she admits, tossing the multitude of thin braids back over her shoulder, beads clinking softly. "I got the spirit. Also, trust me, we have a lot of rice; the world may end, but the rice will not."

"Joelle--" he starts.

"Some sacrifices," she interrupts, expression suddenly far older than her chronological age, "are really gifts--to those making them, I mean. Bread on the water: sometimes, that's how it's returned, just knowing you made someone else's life easier. Everyone who contributed will sleep well tonight knowing they've helped in the only way they can right now."

That makes sense. "It would be an insult to refuse as well."

"Hurt their feelings," Joelle agrees, nodding.

"Thank you," he says quietly. "We appreciate it and will return the favor at the first opportunity."

"Anytime." She stretches her shoulders. "That was my last casserole delivery today, so--"

"I think we have enough people for front desk duty," he says, biting his lip at her disappointment. "However, if you wish, Jeremy is upstairs in the second floor break room where everyone is congregating. I think he would appreciate your company. Pending your mother's approval, of course."

"I asked before I started deliveries, just in case ," she answers in relief. "Where on the second floor now?"

He tilts his head toward the lobby. "I'll walk you up."

* * *

Vera returns with Dolores' permission for Carol to remain, along with a bag of items that may be needed for her care, and reassurance on Alicia. "Just some very shitty bruising. Lewis is keeping her a couple of hours to double check; he's better at reading x-rays than I am--more experience--and I'm more comfortable having a second opinion."

Morbid curiosity forces him to ask, "How did Alicia take that?"

"Oh." Vera surprises him with soft laugh. "I just met the one and only person on earth who can outtalk her; she didn't have a chance." She tips her head curiously. "Drinking start yet?"

"Not yet." Everyone is waiting for what comes next. Vera nods, giving him a quick hug before going to the stairs.

Returning to the Situation Room, it feels like only seconds have passed when Haruhi appears at the door, expression carefully blank. "Cas?"

What comes next is now. Straightening from checking Victoria's adjustments, he nods. "I'll be right there."

Callisto, a tall African-American woman who organizes Ichabod's mortuary services, is waiting in the lobby. Their first--and last meeting--was at Alison's initial dinner party, but he can't quite recall at this moment the details 

"Castiel," she says, extending a hand; judging by her use of his full name, it probably wasn't an unqualified success. "I'm sorry for your loss." 

"Thank you," he answers, shaking her hand politely before his gaze drifts to her assistants--like her, dressed in the proper attire for dealing with Croat-infested bodies--and finally come to rest on the stretcher, two sheets folded discretely on top of a folded body bag. 

Staring at them for a moment, he crosses to the stretcher and takes the sheet and bag himself. "Please wait here."

Alonzo doesn't comment when Castiel dismisses them, but the sharp eyes don't miss what he's carrying, and Castiel closes the door behind him before approaching the cot. Setting aside the bag, he carefully spreads the first sheet on the floor, straightening it meticulously until no creases remain. For the first time since Bobby, he's the one to prepare a human body for burning, and as with Bobby, he won't make any mistakes.

Methodically, he searches the pockets of Andy's sweatpants, removing any personal items he finds; Kat might want some or--for those that can't be sterilized--she can at least look at them before they're destroyed. Setting them aside, he double checks him for any other items, sharply aware of the limp weight of a lifeless body, both heavier and yet lighter in the absence of its owner, the looseness of the limbs as he moves him carefully; rigor mortis hasn't had time to set in.

Lifting him from the cot, he kneels carefully on the floor to place Andy in the precise center of the sheet. He forgot to acquire salt from their supplies, but his own should be sufficient; taking it out, he pours a careful line down Andy's chest before placing his arms gently over it and begins to fold the sheet around him from memory. Starting at his feet, he reproduces each straight line and careful tuck, smoothing the occasional crease and wrinkle away before inserting it carefully into the bag and sits back on his heels, unable to see through the blurred eyes.

"You were an adequate student," he tells the still face, mouth still curved in a lingering smile, and bites back a laugh at such an epitaph. "An excellent hunter," no, "an obedient subordinate," that's obscene. "A friend," he says desperately. "A good friend and comrade, well-liked by all that knew you. A lover," he adds, thinking of Alicia and his former team, of Kat upstairs in Sarah's lap, of the jagged wounds that grief leaves, that makes victims of those that still live. "You will be missed."

It's not enough, nothing could be. They only encompass the smallest part of what Andy was and nothing at all of what he could have been, the hundreds of people he could have been and now never will. He thinks of Alison's thousand lights, the infinite stretch of humanity past, present, and future; Andy's will never grow larger, the space around it potential forever unrealized, a life unlived.

Composing himself takes time, but he takes it, waiting until the tightness in his chest eases, the tears trickling off as he once again asserts the discipline he learned so painfully in the wake of Dean's death. There are things to do, that must be done, and he must do them.

When he picks up the bag again, the shift of weight within it startles him anew, and it's only with an effort that he can keep his balance. When he arrives at the door, it's closed; it occurs to him that he sent Alonzo away, and that's a problem, as he can't reach the doorknob. Surely there's a simple solution, yet he can't seem to think of what it might be.

He's still contemplating the insurmountable problem of how one opens a door when it opens, seemingly of its own accord. Relieved, he steps into the hallway and turns to see what feels like an infinite number of blank faces watching him and stops short; he can't remember what comes next. What comes next?

Then Vera emerges, eyes meeting his as she joins him, murmuring, "Just start walking. I'll be right behind you."

That would be it, yes.

When he starts, the mass parts immediately, becoming faces almost as familiar as his own. He's aware of the presence of Vera at his back as he descends the endless steps before he's abruptly on the main floor and the stretcher waits.

The steps between the stairs and that stretcher could be measured in miles, but he can feel Vera beside him, one hand resting on the back of his shoulder, grounding. As he sets his burden carefully down, he hears himself repeating in his native tongue the words he told Andy only hours ago, that he told the man whose body Jeffrey stole before he died: 

_My Father's fields are vast, and a place has been prepared for you since the moment of your birth; you don't remember now, you can't, but you will. Your work here is done; go there so you can rest. The Host lays claim to every soul on earth without exception, and we will not be denied our right to even one. Your soul is safe, I promise you; now go to your rest._

He doesn't even know if that exists anymore, and there's no one to guide them if it does.

For a moment, he remembers that presence at Dean's range, when the man died after Jeffrey abandoned his body, the empty air that Andy gazed into with surprise before he closed his eyes. A girl with her crook, standing alone to protect her herd: _count your sheep._

"He'll be in the first floor isolation room," Callisto is saying, and he nods belatedly, stepping back. "We turned on everything for--anyway, it should be fine in case we can't burn soon."

_Their lives matter. All their lives matter._ "Have those at the ward line been retrieved?" he asks. 

Callisto's expression remains impassive. "No."

They won't be, not when Croats and Hellhounds wander outside the walls and little chance they'll be going anywhere else anytime soon. Their bodies are still where they fell instead of being properly gathered, goodbye said by those who knew them, and decently burned. To see them, their families must walk to the walls and search that pile of bodies for a glimpse of someone they love, perhaps even have to watch the remaining Croats consume them before their eyes. _They only matter to themselves, to those they love._

"Cas?" Vera murmurs.

_You can choose for them to matter to you._

"Cas?" Vera steps closer, hand coming to rest on his shoulder. "You okay?"

_Count your sheep._ "This is what comes next." He looks at Callisto. "Where can I acquire more bags?"

She starts. "What?" 

"I'm in," he hears Sarah say, and Callisto shuts her mouth, eyes traveling up and widening; following her gaze, he sees Chitaqua's soldiers lining the balustrades of each floor. "When?"

Searching their faces, he wets his lips. "This is not a mission," he says slowly. "I don't expect anyone else to--"

"Got it. We're all in," Melanie interrupts from beside her and is echoed by a dozens of voices. "How long?"

"You're going out to get them?" Callisto asks, looking at him, but whatever she sees on his face seems to be answer enough. "You," she snaps at the suited people with her, "get Andy back and get a truck here loaded and ready. You have fifteen minutes."

As they promptly begin to scurry into motion, Castiel opens his mouth to tell her no. Instead, he asks, "Are you armed?"

"Twenty-two, salt, and silver," she answers, lifting her chin. "I'm open to suggestions, though."

"Vera--"

"I'll get her suited up," she says, tilting her head at Callisto before starting toward the row of offices behind the stairs. "I'll show you what we have, and you tell me what you know how to use."

Looking up at the waiting soldiers, he nods. "You have half an hour to get to the west gate. Brenda, Gretchen, Bart," he adds, finding each of them among the moving crowd, "report to me here as soon as you're ready. I have a job for you."

* * *

"Keep your helpers focused on their duties," he tells Callisto, who proved to Vera's satisfaction she can handle an AK-47 before Vera sent them on their way with a hug and a whispered, "Kill everything you see." Glancing back at the truck slowly following them, the cab and the back filled with people in protective suits, even more following on foot, he wonders how many subordinates Callisto has; he wouldn't think a town of Ichabod's size would have quite so many. "I assume they all work well under pressure?"

"In our line of work, I don't keep anyone who can't," she answers, adjusting the strap. "Salt line first, then start bagging; we know how to do it fast."

"Don't risk contagion," he starts and gets a wry look from Callisto-- _do we look like idiots?_ \--and feels himself smile. "I apologize; you know your duties far better than I do. However, take as much time as you need."

Callisto opens her mouth to protest as they reach the end of Second Street and then shakes her head. "You know your job better than I do," she says with a faint, answering smile. "If you think you can keep them back, I'm with you."

"We plan to kill them," he states as the gate comes into view, where over half of Chitaqua's soldiers are waiting impatiently and what feels like half of Ichabod watching from the walls and the streets; apparently, Haruhi was not exaggerating when she said that wall duty was very popular. "Is there anything else I should know?"

"I think we're good," she answers easily. "Follow you out, watch the triple salt line on the way, and what happens outside the salt circle stays outside the salt circle, I miss anything?"

"Not that I can think of."

"Good hunting, Castiel," she says as she goes to join her people, and almost immediately the team leaders converge on him. Haruhi lingers near the other team members, but perhaps that's because her team isn't supposed to be here, nor any of the other recruits; a quick count confirms they're all accounted for.

"Escort for Callisto's crew and watch," Melanie says softly, short brown hair bound at the nape of her neck. "That frees us all for fun and games, especially since we don't have Amanda and Alicia." Then, more quietly, "Cas, it's their town, too, and they have friends out there. We both know they can handle it."

He looks at Haruhi, Travis, Kara, Alonzo, and Britney before nodding to them, and looking wary, they join the other patrol leaders.

"Generally, escort duty is a privilege only accorded to a team that has proved itself in the field and their judgement found without flaw," he says, watching their faces. "Your duty is to defend Callisto and her helpers, which includes responsibility for the integrity of the salt lines that protects them. Your first and only concern is their defense; all your attention should be on them and protecting them from what threatens them. Do you understand?"

They all nod, and he reminds himself all of them have served on Ichabod's patrol, and most recently fought in the attack on Ichabod a few weeks ago and acquitted themselves very well. 

"How many of you have experience with Hellhounds?" he asks, and Haruhi and Britney raise their hands. "Review with your teams procedure with something that isn't entirely corporeal; your best defense is the salt lines; if even one is breached, fix it immediately. Your range of interest is twenty feet from the outermost circle; nothing outside of that should concern you, but shoot anything not human that tries to come within."

"Yes, sir," Haruhi says soberly, echoed by Travis.

"Go speak to your teams to assure they understand the exact scope of their duties. Their failure is yours and you will be held responsible for it," he says. "Go." Turning, he sees Brenda appears with Gretchen and Bart just behind her, looking winded but pleased, and nods for them to join him. "Where is the largest convergence of Croats?"

"About sixty on their way west from the north gate," Brenda reports. "They've formed three, maybe four hunting parties so far."

"Twenty-one south, moving west," Gretchen says. "I saw a few stragglers grouped just east of the South gate, but from the way they were moving, they're the most wounded. Pretty sure they're hiding from the others."

"I see." Croats aren't mindless, no, only nearly so, but it's never other than painful to be reminded of those pieces of humanity that survive within them despite the ravages of the virus. Primate tribal behavior is so deeply ingrained in the human genome even Croatoan can only at best suppress it for short periods of time, but the wounded gathering together away from the healthy is far more than instinct. Primate tribal behavior allows them to hunt together, including their own weak in what he assumes is Lucifer's brutally simplified and mistaken version of Darwin's survival of the fittest (which despite Darwin's personality did indeed cover most of the key points, if very boringly); it does not, however, lead to the weak and wounded banding together, seeing each other not as food but as allies against those stronger.

He almost wishes Lucifer could see that and understand what it means; in this small way, humanity defied him even when consumed with the virus that destroys them. Even if he did, Castiel supposes he'd say it didn't matter, which would be both true and entirely miss the point. Then again, Lucifer's never quite grasped a point existed at all.

"Come here," he tells everyone, waiting until they've come close enough that he doesn't need to raise his voice. "Brenda and Gretchen confirmed the Croatoans are exhibiting social behavior and will therefore now exclude each other as 'food', at least while we're available. As you're aware, this is when they're most dangerous; they can and will work together." Everyone nods, remembering various bouts of urban warfare with an enemy that couldn't be counted on to be either intelligent or mindless. "Fortunately, they only manifested less than twelve hours ago and are still primarily prey to the artificial compulsion to spread the virus. Also fortunately, their desire to eat you--preferably while still living--interferes with that as well. For my Brother's work ethic is execrable and he was easily distracted during the design process to privilege 'horror' over 'efficiency'."

The round of laughter is quiet but genuine; it's not as if he hasn't shared his feeling on this subject before.

"We'll begin with standard containment. Melanie and Ana, select two thirds of those present and take the north; Sean and Christina, one third for the south; Brenda, Natalie, supervise the recruits; they're aware of the duties of an escort but this may be the first time it's been brought into practice. Gretchen, select five people to protect the gate and assure there is a clear path of retreat for Callisto and her assistants, and act as the first line of defense for Callisto and her people." Visualizing the area outside the West Gate, he sets Callisto and her helpers in place, mentally drawing the three salt circles in wide parabolas curling around the bodies and widening as they approach the gate. Adding the recruits and then Gretchen and those watching the gate, he verifies the landscape and nods to himself. "Your first priority is to drive the Croatoans back east and away from those working at the ward line and the West Gate; the hard line should be established at no less than one hundred feet away from the outermost salt line to the south and two hundred feet from the north; doubling that would be better. Once the patrol teams engage the Croatoans, begin containment protocol. Upon successful containment of all living Croatoans, create a hard perimeter and assure no Croatoan within the perimeter survives. Do you have any questions?"

"Any sign of Red Dress?" Melanie asks, and Brenda shakes her head. "I guess when we get out there, we'll know pretty fast if she stuck around."

Castiel thinks about how Alicia was pursued and Erica's control over the Croats. If she's still out there, without the distraction of a former member of her team, the situation will become far more dangerous; unlike Croats, Erica won't be handicapped by insanity, and she's never been overly burdened with empathy. Far worse, she knows them very, very well.

"The demon is Erica." Mel's jaw tightens, and Sean curses, but the reaction is mostly stunned silence, and searching the other faces, he sees shock, horror, disbelief, but surprise, none at all. Most of them witnessed the pursuit outside the wall and known they weren't dealing with an average demon. "Her ability to control Croatoans in large numbers cannot be underestimated, and she knows us and how we work. If she appears, you are to do the following: break off, return to the west gate, assist in getting Callisto's group inside the alcove with the recruits to protect them, and set up a perimeter to defend them." Getting the gate to open will be another story entirely, but with less than a hundred Croats and a small area to defend, even Erica's options will be limited.

"We can still try to shoot her first, right?" Melanie asks, and there's an undercurrent in her voice that reminds him that for a few short weeks before Kansas City, Mel was assigned to her team after Felix's death.

"If you can, please do," he agrees sincerely before continuing. "Our second item of concern is the Hellhounds currently circling Ichabod's walls searching for a break in the salt line. The internal lines at each gate and door are under heavy guard, and for those doorways currently bricked, a salt line was laid beneath each one; when we're done, we'll be able to successfully fix the external lines as well as block the opening of each alcove that leads to a brick door and give the city further protection." Everyone nods, unworried. "Hellhounds generally move in packs and I visually confirmed the presence of five. The attack on Carol and subsequent attempt at disengagement confirms they've been purposed to a specific person, but the personal supervision of a demon during the Croat attack--and for that matter, the Croat attack itself--implies this contract is...." How to put this. "Somewhat ambiguous in the terms."

Sarah raises her eyebrows, which Castiel correctly interprets as 'bafflement', and he can't help but sympathize; much like the Apocalypse, it seems even contract law is not entirely sure how to interpret the simultaneous death of one Dean while one remains among the living.

"We have a candidate for that?" Mel asks casually.

"We do," he answers. "We're awaiting confirmation before officially announcing their identity." He thinks of Alicia; she has enough to deal with at the moment without that. "Remember: Hellhounds are only partially incorporeal; they do have presence in this world and affect it much like any corporeal being. They compensate for that with their speed of attack and artificially engender perfect silence on approach by muffling all sound within their immediate vicinity. That works very well, except when we're also fighting something that makes a great deal of noise, and Croats aren't loathe to be very noisy indeed. Pay attention to abrupt silence in any direction and take action immediately: create a salt line to protect yourselves and wait for assistance. However, I hope that won't be necessary; I'll be seeing to the Hellhounds myself--"

Castiel observes a startling demonstration of Dean's influence as Ana, Sean, and Christina immediately protest (loudly) with other voices joining theirs. Sarah, of all people, looks as if she might be experiencing a feeling (what, who can say) and is dangerously close to both identifying it and perhaps doing something about it.

Melanie simply rolls her eyes. "Yeah, no."

"I doubt I'll need to kill all five," he says, not entirely without regret. "If Erica isn't here, we aren't their targets."

"It's like you forgot I've been on missions with you," Melanie retorts, and Sarah actually nods with uncharacteristic animation. "You're _always_ their target."

"We'll stay with him," Sarah says, and beside her, Drew nods. "Phil is with Kat, and with just two of us, we can assist with setup for the kill. In case," she adds in something that might have once met sarcasm, "Cas needs to kill more than one."

He looks around them, vaguely tempted to surreptitiously sprinkle Sarah with holy water, just in case. "Very well. Are there any other questions?"

"One," Melanie asks, tipping her head toward the gate and Hans stoically pretending he's not very, very worried. "So how are we getting out again?"

Castiel tilts his head, regarding Hans thoughtfully. "I have an idea about that."

* * *

To his credit, Hans' stoic expression doesn't change at Castiel's approach, looking down at Castiel from his four inch advantage and attempting without success to loom. He also doesn't move from physically blocking the wide double doors, which Castiel both approves of and also finds extremely inconvenient.

"At my signal," Castiel tells Hans firmly, "open the gate."

Hans swallows, taking in the group behind him before focusing on him again. "Cas, one, it's an hour after dusk, and two--"

"Those that died deserve a clean burn, and their families and friends deserve the opportunity to mourn them," he interrupts. "There are Croats and Hellhounds currently outside the salt line and threatening this town, and they must be eliminated. This is what we do; it's what we _are_." He verifies the integrity of the inner salt line before meeting Han's eyes. "I hope you choose to open it."

Hans frowns. "What--"

"Melanie," he says, "in my absence, you're in command."

"See you on the flip side," she says with a sloppy salute. "Don't do anything I can't do yet."

"What's he doing?" Castiel hears Hans ask as he starts up the ladder, aware of the confusion of those on the ground and the gaze of those on the walkway as he ascends. 

Reaching the top, he nods acknowledgment of the various (bewildered) greetings as he walks to the area just above the gate and scans the area carefully. One Croat just coming into view from the north, no Hellhounds (that's really only a matter of time), and no sign of Erica in her vividly red dress. Taking a deep breath, he expands his senses carefully, searching; a disadvantage of training a future demon is that she's very aware of at least some of his abilities due to having told her himself, even if not of his range. He suspects, however, that the injury from Amanda's excellent shot combined with the amount of power she spent so recklessly controlling the Croats was enough for her to leave, at least for now.

Stepping onto the top of battlements, he hears one of those on patrol say, "What's he doing?" with the inflection of someone who genuinely seems bewildered on the subject before he steps off.

* * *

For some time, Castiel set ten feet as the maximum he could afford to jump (for falling, of course, it was more a hopeful suggestion) without risking an injury that would limit his ability to immediately continue fighting. Familiarity with the human body was still a work in progress, and its limits were not to be tested with impunity; that Dean insisted he approve and supervise any experiment was almost enough for Castiel to immediately do so on his own (and in full view of the camp) but for once, common sense came to the fore and reminded him that pain hurt and more importantly, it was lowering to have to limp toward his opponent to vanquish it.

The question became moot when he agreed to teach a second class of recruits; as Dean wouldn't be sharing the duty with him, his excursions out of the camp--limited as they were to missions--were at an end as long as training continued. If that restriction wasn't one of the reasons that he didn't wish to train another class, it was among the reasons that his second class spent their first week so utterly exhausted that they couldn't even summon the energy to hate him until after at least two meals and several hours of sleep. Dislike of being trapped within the camp walls was only one part of it; combat was one of the few things that not being human was an advantage, and more importantly, other than sex, it was the only thing about mortality that he enjoyed. 

Two months of training his second class had gone from a detested duty to a pleasure he wasn't entirely comfortable in admitting even to himself, and that was when Mira demonstrated her Nationals floor routine and more importantly, told him about an apparatus called the uneven bars and explained the concept of a dismount from a height of eight feet plus the length of her body (five feet, three inches, apparently not ideal for a gymnast, or so he gathered). Fortunately, she was perfectly willing to discuss--in detail--all the many ways humans achieve short-term altitude before arriving under their own power on the ground without injury (most of the time) and how many years it takes for a person to learn to do that.

Taking into account part of a dismount were the acrobatics that slowed the rate of descent, he set his goal at fourteen feet (eight feet for the bar, six for his height) and concentrated on watching Mira demonstrate the art of how to fall in all its permutations, and there were many. Deliberately, he ignored any and all preconceived ideas of what constituted the limits of the human body and tested different methods at various heights up to ten, slowly and carefully collecting data before turning his attention to his body--now less utterly bewildering, somewhat more familiar, with which he was now involved in something like an armed truce--and examining the requirements of a successful landing from body position and full muscle relaxation to dispersing impact and finding the right combination for what would be his fully successful first attempt at a height of (something near) fourteen feet. With Dean's supervision, of course: he was there, after all, and one doesn't stop chasing a very determined chupacabra to ask permission.

Two years and many incidents of both deliberate and accidental experimentation later, he won't say twenty-four feet is nothing. Unless, of course, he's asked.

* * *

Landing in a modified crouch, body memory and reflex keep him relaxed, body carefully centered to disperse the force of impact, and verifies everything is in working order before pushing to his feet, vaguely aware of a great deal of activity on the wall above him. Taking out the salt, he fixes the first across the length of the alcove opening before retreating a foot to start the next line, counting down the amount of time he has before the Croat reaches him.

Satisfied he can defend at least one of those two lines if needed, he pitches his voice to reach through the heavy wood and metal (though those on the walkway can probably hear him speak in a normal voice; the wind is in his favor) and says, "Please open the gate at your convenience. I'll wait, of course."

Two feet back, he begins the third line of salt, then two more feet, a fourth, before the Croat appears looking--much like a Croat--and unsurprisingly, a Hellhound at its heels, teeth bared in cheerful promise of agonizing death.

A single shot dispatches the Croat (by way of loss of his head), and Castiel finishes a fifth line at exactly two feet from the gate before going to the space between the first two lines, tilting his head to study the Hellhound.

According to his calculations, ten minutes is as long as Hans' nerves will allow him to stare into the eyes of half of Chitaqua (and Callisto, who he senses has a glare that is equal to any number of Chitaqua hunters or even--possibly--Dean), at which time he'll attempt to be surreptitious in sending someone for Manuel (or possibly, Dean), argue with Melanie, lose, and the gate will be allowed to open. The wait will be very boring, of course, but then again, much of life is.

He took everything into account but a single, surprising factor: he's no longer an angel, he's mortal, and logic vanishes when faced with a Hellhound that stalked Dean, Amanda, and Alicia's team to Andy's death. They are creatures purposed for destruction and joy in pain, that tore Dean apart when his contract came due as it has done to more humans than he can ever want to count, that raped Cynothoglys and forced her to bear its offspring, that exists only to destroy. They're relentless, focused, and once they have your scent, they can follow it forever even past your death. Immortal, nearly invulnerable, invisible to humans not at the end of their contract, its mouth gapes in a grin that promises it will happily kill all within its sight.

Castiel's questionable life decisions are legion: he rebelled against Heaven, challenged archangels, threatened his superiors, defied his orders until he was sundered from his Brethren, and voluntarily Fell to earth and into mortality. Apparently, he was just getting started: since then, he's taunted Lucifer over Dean's dead body, almost killed himself trying to control angelic vision without Grace, threatened a powerful psychic, defended a demon who as a human tried to kill him from Crowley, and most inexplicable of all, agreed to help Dean lead Chitaqua and learned how to cook.

In light of that, he can't think of a single reason why not add this to the list.

Stripping off his coat, Castiel takes out his knife and steps over the salt line with a rush of adrenaline like a shock from a live wire, feeling a wide grin spread across his face. "Here, boy."

* * *

To say that combat on the corporeal plane was very different from that he engaged in while a member of the Host would be much like saying apples are somewhat unlike plasma discharges from a newborn star. To compare them would be an exercise in futility, and yet. He couldn't help noticing that while a member of the Host, satisfaction came from the sating of the predatory instincts of an angel, pleasure from doing his duty and winning, joy in obedience, all very well and good and deeply spiritual (incorporeal existence has a great deal of that), but none of that prepared him for the first time he fought as a mortal.

Humans are predators as well. What they gained in brain development didn't diminish the instincts that made them the most dangerous creatures his Father ever created; nothing is more deadly than a predator that can think.

As first Dean's student and then Amy's, he was at best competent, no better nor worse than the average among hunters when his skills were not augmented by strength or speed. It wasn't a surprise; among the Host, he was neither the best nor worst of its soldiers, and pride being the sin of Lucifer, he resented that fact not at all. For satisfaction came in doing his duty, he was but one of many, service, etcetera _ad infinitum_.

There was little doubt in his (or honestly, anyone's) mind that if (when) he Fell and was subject to mortal constraints, there was even odds on him surviving his first engagement before he could gain practical experience in mortality and the human body. That he kept both strength and speed was a somewhat mixed blessing; his odds of survival increased dramatically (provided he wasn't stupid, which was most definitely in doubt) but controlling it to avoid killing himself with it was something of an issue. 

Drilling with Dean, he slowly but surely reconnected with all his training, and his former competence confirmed. And yet--through his mind drifted one of his last conversations with Amy at Alpha and her constant dissatisfaction with his progress even after his training with her was done. Competence wasn't enough; it was nothing, simply performing the required movements by rote.

Twenty-five days after he left the cabin Fallen and not quite whole but technically very much alive, Dean took him on a mission with several of their new recruits to examine what was left of Kansas City. Only in retrospect does Castiel recognize that there was no possible way that mission couldn't have gone as it did (new recruits, Dean impatient and bitterly angry (reason now known), Castiel beginning to develop an unhealthy dislike of anything and everything he saw), that being an attack on them from a group of very determinedly hungry Croats the moment they were out of sight of the jeep.

Castiel remembers turning around to see them, all too-fast steps, ragged clothing, and hungry expressions, and the (slow, monotonous, grindingly miserable) world came to an abrupt stop.

The flood of adrenaline slammed into him like a meteorite into living earth, setting off a chain reaction across his brain and changed the too-sharp boundaries of the body he wore. Vision sharpened, time slowed, and he had all the time in the universe to watch them approach and choose his target. Years of conditioning took over, Amy's grueling reflex training brought into immediate practice augmented by his retained speed, and three Croats were dead before he could think enough to wonder what was happening before two attacked at once and his focus narrowed to them and nothing else.

Panting, he came back to himself crouching on blood-stained concrete surrounded by eight Croat bodies, holding a gun and vaguely aware of the (terrified?) new recruits and Dean, thrumming with exaltation and shock, examining the last ten minutes second by second and seeing a fundamental truth. It was neither speed nor strength that dispatched those Croats (though they helped), but hours and days and weeks and _years_ of Dean's barked instructions and Amy's coolly methodical orders, endless drills and repetition, and finally, he understood what Amy meant when she said he should be better than he was.

After an existence in which as he was created he would always be, neither better nor worse, unchanged and unchanging, he knew neither want nor desire for he could imagine nothing else. Now he can. He remembers the last time he glimpsed infinity, existence confined within that discrete brilliance but able to see that stretch of emptiness beyond and wondering what it was; now he knew. Potential unrealized, what could be and wasn't yet, might and maybe.

He should be better, Amy told him, rare frustration coloring her voice; perhaps now, he should find out exactly what 'better' could be.

* * *

Dropping flat, Castiel feels the passage of the Hellhound over him and twists sideways before it finishes its landing, crouched and ready as it turns on him, jaws gaping wide and wet with slaver, the low growl reverberating up his spine as it contemplates the odds of catching him this time.

"Tired already?" he asks, fingertips resting in the thin blanket of snow as it hesitates, watching him, but the abrupt bunching of muscle in its hindquarters telegraphs the feint. "Your brother was far more of a challenge to the human who killed it."

Dodging sideways as it leaps, Castiel slices a thin line along its side when it passes, close enough to smell the acrid-sulfur of its breath. Rolling onto his feet, he darts back as it howls, the snow hissing with every drop of dark blood as it twists to face him. Dividing his attention between his current opponent and listening for the rest of the pack, he follows the wide arc of its stalk around him.

"Do you even have proper names?" he asks curiously. "I like Fido; how about you?"

With an outraged growl, Fido (he does like that name) sprints toward him, and Castiel holds his position until the last moment before dodging to the side, too late for it to do anything but allow inertia to have its way. Skidding several feet in the snow, it twists around for a second pass, but the distance is too short for it to reach full speed and Castiel dodges easily, adding injury to insult by slicing across Fido's back, too shallow to do anything but annoy it.

Glancing to the north, he verifies the lack of Croats, which could complicate this situation unduly, especially if the rest of the pack decides to grace him with their presence. 

Fido circles him again, calculating; Hellhounds aren't stupid and this one, at least, now has a very good idea of what he can do--

There's no warning this time, and Castiel has just enough time to turn before the claws can rip out his heart and feels the graze of teeth along his right arm instead. Dropping on his back in the snow and therefore with instead of against the sharp curve of its canines, he kicks it just below the eye, and jerks his arm free as it howls in pain, adding a kick to the chest that sends it skidding several yards away. Keeping his gaze on Fido, he sits up, flexing his fingers and then his wrist, turning his arm and feeling the stab of pain and a sharp pull that reassures him no muscles were severed but tells him he should probably get it bandaged, if for no other reason than to avoid the annoyance of fresh blood slicking his hand and interfering with his grip. 

"I need a moment." Taking out his sidearm, he shoots Fido directly in its sensitive muzzle to give him a few seconds to retrieve a roll of gauze from his inner pocket and manage a workable field dressing before getting to his feet. Howling, Fido shakes himself, what passes for blood hissing as it falls into the snow and raising sulfur-scented steam, which is not the most edifying scent in the world. Growling, Fido focuses on the blood seeping through the gauze before looking at him with the sharp hunger of its carnivore base. Much like Croats, Hellhounds don't need to eat of flesh, but when they do so, they far prefer live prey that continues to live for as much of the meal as possible and feed upon their horror and pain, drawing out a moment of time to feel like eternity.

Sam screamed for Dean every night as his brother died in endless blood-soaked loops, from the day of Dean's death until Dean crawled out of his grave whole and alive. 

"Fido," he says softly, switching the knife to his left hand. "Here, boy."

Without hesitation, Fido sprints toward him, and this time, Castiel doesn't move, remembering the first nightmare Dean experienced as a human being; the Hellhound that ripped his throat apart but left the arteries intact so he wouldn't bleed out. So it could feed on his pain and horror and deny him even the small relief of a single scream, only helpless whistles as he slowly choked on his own blood. Andy died quietly, kindly from a needle, but death is still death, and for lack of this thing, he might have lived.

Dropping at the very last moment, Castiel grabs its muzzle and uses its own momentum to slam it into the ground before rolling it on its back, a single swipe of the blade opening it from throat to belly. He closes a hand over its neck and feels the pulse of its life against his fingers before he rips out its throat, crushing the ruins of flesh and blood before dropping it to the smoking, blackened snow, its howls educed to nothing but acidic bubbles of pain.

_You're not a monster._

Switching his grip on the knife, he cuts through the vertebrae and severs its spine and watches the light vanish from its eyes. _You're not a monster_ , Dean told him without hesitation, looking upon a being whose existence was defined by efficiency in dealing death in the name of justice. A rabid dog kills without reason and a monster for pleasure; Dean sees a person who is neither, and that person will kill, but the reason will never be pleasure, and it will always, always be clean.

He starts to rise when he realizes he can't hear the sound of snow crushed beneath his boots and goes still just as a low, triumphant growl ripples through the air with a hot wave of sulfuric breath. Clutching the knife, he has just enough time to consider which part of his body he's willing to sacrifice for imminent maiming (not a decision that's easy; he's rather fond of them all) when the silence is broken by the sound of series of hard thumps not unlike something being beaten to death, a sharp crack, and a high pitched, agonized howl followed by four feet running desperately away. 

He turns around in time to see Sarah, ponytail still flawless, flip her rifle back around to study the black streaks on the cracked butt. "I think I can still use it," she says calmly, turning in place to shoot at a distant Croat and watching it fall before nodding. "Good enough."

Blinking at her, he looks down at the pool of melted sulfur-tinged slush and the footprints vanishing away toward IH-Ichabod. "How did you--"

"I saw the snow sink behind you," she answers, walking over to extend a hand and pulling him to his feet. "You stilled but didn't move, which means it was too close for you to simply retreat. I couldn't be certain I would be accurate shooting it if I couldn't see it, and since it was focused on you, I--"

"Beat the general area it might be in with your rifle until it ran away in a great deal of pain," he finishes as she takes out fresh gauze and precut tape and makes a neat bandage over his rough attempt, wiping the blood fastidiously with a spare piece before tucking it into her jacket. He wonders if a Hellhound's ever had someone try to simply beat it to death with their rifle; on a guess, considering its reaction to the actuality, no. "Well done."

"Thank you." Sliding the rifle back over her shoulder, she studies the area around them and he realizes one, she's alone, and two, the gate is still closed. Searching the wall, he just catches the faint motion of a rope. "It shouldn't be long," she says, following his gaze to the gate. "Anyi called in Ichabod's patrol to give us support on the walls while arguing with Hans."

"And you didn't wait because...."

"You were out here," she answers with the faintest hint of surprise. "I would have been here earlier, but I had to find a rope."

Before Castiel can respond, the gate swings open and the militia emerges, half spreading out in a defensive perimeter as the other half rush to draw the first of three elongated parabolas around the bodies, large enough to protect those who will be collecting the bodies and give them room to work as well as access to the gate. Approvingly, he sees the recruits at the mouth of the alcove, blocking Callisto and her helpers before Brenda gives the signal and they spread out to escort their charges in a picture-perfect formation; Amanda's done an excellent job with them.

As soon as Callisto and her people are within the salt lines, Castiel signals a shaky looking Hans; beyond him, a determined looking Anyi and other members of Ichabod's patrol are spread out in a row, guns at the ready for anything that might cross the salt line. 

"Close the gate until I give the order to open it again," he says. Eyes flickering to the wall, he sees it's almost solid with people and wonders vaguely just how many volunteers are on wall duty today; the number seems excessive.

Then Melanie and her team are beside him, looking at him with identical expressions of reproach. "You couldn't wait?"

"Fido annoyed me," he explains, wondering if he should apologize. "There are still many enemies to kill."

Melanie concedes the point, rifle falling into her hands and expression darkening as she turns to face the oncoming Croats. "Cas?"

"On my mark." He waits until everyone's in position, checking to assure the gate as well as Callisto and her assistants are protected. Taking out his rifle, he feels Sarah come up beside him and sees another Hellhound courageously skulking in the shadow of Ichabod's wall. "Mark." He motions to Sarah, who follows his gaze, working out the position from line of sight. "We'll call that one Spot."

* * *

The collection of the Croat bodies at this time is impossible--there's no way to be certain when the three remaining Hellhounds will return--but Castiel tours the field himself, marking each face, reconstructing features sometimes only crushed bone and livid flesh, and committing them to memory before putting a final bullet in their heads. Still running on far more adrenaline than he needs, he sets three teams to watch and assists Callisto and her helpers to finish the gruesome task of sorting and bagging the remains. 

This is what will happen once they're brought inside Ichabod's walls and taken to Ichabod's mortuary: each bag will be opened, their identities verified either by view or by photograph, and they will be prepared for a final viewing if possible or desired. After burning, their ashes will be placed in a plot with new stone that records the date of death and beneath a list of names of those who died. Among the dead are two volunteers from Harlin and one from Noak as well as three from towns outside the Alliance; he supposes the final decision on what will be done with their ashes will be with the mayors of those towns and their families.

Three-quarters through their work, Callisto asks him if it's safe to signal the gate so that the truck can be driven out to carry the bodies (a relief: he was wondering about that). Almost immediately upon their arrival, the gate is closed again, and after drawing a salt line to encompass both the truck and their path back to the gate, the teams not on watch assist Callisto and her assistants in transferring the bagged bodies, her assistants climbing in as well in the scant room that remains when they're done.

"I'll meet you there," she tells them as Castiel verifies Chitaqua's perimeter is secure before signaling for the gate to open again. She waits for the truck to pass inside the gate, then follows them inside the protective circle of the recruits. After the recruits are safely within the walls, Castiel signals the perimeter to begin contracting, allowing those not on watch to enter and finally giving the command to disperse, keeping watch until they're inside before following them himself, redrawing the salt line at the opening of the alcove. For reasons unclear, Sarah and Drew refuse to leave his side, which he hazily categorizes as some strange new vagary in human behavior. Once the lines are done, they enter the gate and he gives the command to close the gate.

To his bemusement, the truck is idling at the mouth of Second. Frowning, he starts to scan for any obstructions, absenting noting the number of people and wondering just how many people are on wall duty (it is, he admits, a very big wall), then Callisto abruptly appears beside him, a thick robe covering her suit, contaminated outer gloves and mask already discarded to reduce any potential risk, and smelling faintly of alcohol and antiseptic. "Mind walking us back, Castiel?"

"Yes, of course." Their headquarters are on the eastern side of Second, and the mortuary just past the center point. He signals the teams to take up escort positions; it will be good practice for them.

"Thanks." Raising her voice, she tells the waiting truck, "Okay, move out. Lead feet will be punished; I'm fucking tired."

He starts to suggest she ride in the truck herself, but he suspects she knows that already and instead adjusts his stride to match hers. They walk in silence well behind the truck for a few moments before Callisto abruptly says, "So this really was about getting our people back."

"Yes," he answers warily, shifting his rifle and reminding himself to check and clean his and Dean's weapons at the first opportunity. "Though exterminating the local threat was a very pleasant bonus for everyone, so we appreciate the opportunity."

"I have to admit, it was pretty good for me, too." Callisto is quiet for half a block before she says, "My cousin--we were raised together, did everything together, even came here…." She trails off, eyes fixing on the truck before them with an unmistakable expression, and he realizes she must have been one of those they collected.

"I'm sorry for your loss." He takes in her firm stride and set expression and thinks of duty: calmly collecting Andy's body at Headquarters and then assisting with the collection of those outside the walls, setting her pain aside for later to handle those things that must be done now. Unwillingly, he finds himself comparing Callisto's strictly controlled grief to Kat and shakes his head sharply, disliking himself for the thought; of all people, he has no right to judge the measure of grief and how it's expressed.

Belatedly, he realizes something else; the only question is if her cousin was dead before or after Dean gave the order to end the lives of everyone at the ward line. There's no way to be certain of immediate cause of death; Dean's order encompassed all of them, whether still living or not.

Something of that must show on his face. "Breathe," she says roughly, shaking her head. "I work the isolation room, Cas; needle or a bullet, the reason's the same. The only difference is method."

Mercy, yes: those that give it to others rarely if ever accord it to themselves as well.

"And not just the isolation room," she adds more quietly. "Infirmary duty: when Dolores calls for all hands on deck, that means anyone who knows anything about bodies, even if it's just dead ones. And everyone knows sometimes--there are some things Dolores can't fix and it's just a matter of time." Her eyes fix on the truck ahead of them. "And decide how much time is too much."

He nods; sometimes, even the time it would take to return to the camp was far too long.

"I wouldn't have asked Manuel to get them," she continues. "I know the risks, but--I could see her from the wall, she was _right there_." The faint crack in her voice says more than any overt display of pain and so does how quickly she composes herself again. "And I couldn't get to her. That--that was the part I couldn't…see my girl, get her ready, get her kids so could we could say good-bye to her together, not have my last memories of her be watching her rot from the goddamn wall, unable to see a goddamn thing but what was done to her before she finally died." She looks up at him. "Sometimes, the last time we see them alive is watching them die, or hearing exactly what happened and letting imagination do the dirty work on the rest. My job is to make sure their last memory isn't that. I clean them up, fix what I can and hide what I can't, so when they see them one last time, they don't see how they died or why; all they see the person they loved at peace. It helps, and when not much else does--well, you take what you can get."

He nods slowly, thinking of Andy's peaceful face, unique in its rarity; peaceful deaths are few and very, very far between. "I understand."

"What I'm saying," she continues, "is thank you. You didn't have to help us get them--"

"Yes, we did," he interrupts belatedly, annoyed he missed where this was going before he could redirect (though how, he's not entirely certain, but surely he would have thought of something). "Please, don't mention it, or whatever goes here that's more appropriate to the situation. It was our duty." Adding _our pleasure_ , while very true, seems inappropriate at the moment.

She cocks her head doubtfully. "Didn't know 'retrieving bodies for burning from dangerous sitches' was in a hunter's job description, Cas."

"It's _de facto_ ," he explains, belatedly noting at some point she shifted to calling him 'Cas', and wonders why. "Saving people, helping things: it's in there somewhere."

Her expression goes from 'doubtful' to 'suspicious', but the full lips twitch minutely. "Really?"

"I was an angel of the Lord," he answers. "I would know."

"How often does that line actually work?" she asks curiously. "Historically, I mean."

"All the time," he assures her. "Provided your name isn't Dean Winchester, then never, even by accident."

* * *

Vera's waiting almost at the door upon their return to Headquarters after they help transfer the bodies into the mortuary, a beacon of calm welcome in a sea of post-combat euphoria. Several families were waiting and joined by others soon after their arrival, and in the confusion, they were able to slip away. Castiel was grateful for it, but Vera's expression telegraphs he might wish to have mortuary duty tonight. Now, even. Callisto could certainly have used some additional assistance.

Smiling, she meets his eyes and flicks them to the left and yes, there's Dean, leaning back against the stairs and looking--he's not sure.

"You know the drill," Vera says, raising her voice when everyone is assembled in the lobby and taking advantage of a temporary lull in laughter and traded anecdotes. "Any new injuries other than Cas, who's doing a shitty job hiding it?" Everyone shakes their head. "I set up isolation in the mess. Strip down, everything that isn't metal goes in the biohazard bag, weapons on the table. There's a bathroom across the hall; scrub down, grab some scrubs--and say thanks to Dolores next time you see her--and go relax for a while. I left snacks, bandages, painkillers, and alcohol for everyone," she adds, pausing for the inevitable cheering. "Two hour clock starts now; let's get going." 

Castiel seriously considers joining them on the principle that he could--somehow--have randomly mutated into a human who could (possibly) be potentially infected.

"Come on," Dean says, apparently tired of waiting. "Let me check your arm."

Giving up, Castiel follows him down the hallway to the infirmary, where there's already a kit and a bowl of clean water as well as a clean cloth on a conveniently placed table accompanied by two chairs.

Resigned to his fate, he removes the ruined flannel and sits down, extending his arm. Dean strips off the gauze with professional efficiency but perhaps more stiffly and with less care than Castiel's come to expect. Looking at the wounds for a moment, Dean shakes his head. "Couldn't help showing off, huh?"

He stiffens as Dean dips the cloth into the water and cleans off the dust and dried blood, the sting of antiseptic drowned beneath the pain in response to Dean's thoroughness. He controls a wince with difficulty, fighting the urge to snap at Dean to be more careful, and it's only body memory keeping him perfectly still as Dean carelessly drops the bloody cloth in the bowl.

"I wasn't showing off," he says evenly, isolating the pain before blocking it carefully from conscious notice. Dean rolls his eyes as he opens the kit and takes out a set of butterfly bandages to hold the deeper wound closed, as they don't require stitches. "I was--"

"One on one with a Hellhound?" Dean snorts, tugging Cas's wrist closer before applying the first bandage, and Castiel ruthlessly ignores the distant flare of pain to reluctantly admire Dean's improved control of his left hand. "Come on."

"That wasn't--"

"Look, you want to go play with Croats to get out whatever, fine," Dean says coolly, ignoring him. "But I left you in command here, and I get word you took half the camp and a whole bunch of civilians straight into a group of Croats and Hellhounds for _what_?"

"The bodies of the dead," he answers as Dean applies the last bandage to the deepest cut and starts on the next. "They--"

"Dead bodies," Dean says flatly, looking up at Castiel with green eyes gone flat. " _Croat_ infected bodies that are now in Ichabod, good job."

"They know what precautions to take as well or better than we do," he argues, but for some reason, Dean's utter lack of care as he closes the wounds is what bothers him most. It's ridiculous, but he's apparently gotten used to Dean's usual level of attention. "Dean--"

"Micah's out there and we both know he's involved in this shit somehow," Dean interrupts as if he hadn't spoken, adding the last bandage before sitting back. "Instead of finding his ass, I'm here--"

"Why are you here?"

"Because I got word my second ordered the gate open, and I had to come back to find out what the hell was going on," Dean answers in the same cool voice. "Now half of Chitaqua's in isolation--"

"For two hours--"

"Don't interrupt me again." Castiel stiffens, staring at Dean in confusion. "You risk injuring or killing half my soldiers and get yourself injured fucking around with a Hellhound when you know we may soon be fighting for people's _lives_ and any injury is a liability."

Frantically, he collects his thoughts. "I didn't think you'd object to my decision when you knew the reason," he answers, wondering how to explain so Dean understands. "They--the families and friends deserve to be able to say goodbye to their dead."

"The dead," Dean says flatly, "are dead. You put yo--everyone in danger to get _dead bodies_. Our job is to keep the living still living, not risk adding more people to the casualty count for fucking...whatever the hell it was you thought you were doing." Castiel stops himself from flinching at the edge in Dean's voice. "If you can't remember that, maybe you shouldn't be doing the job." He stares at Castiel for a moment before shoving his chair back, as if-- "Look, I wasted enough time with this and need to get back. Want me to send Vera to finish up here?"

Castiel stills, unable to think through the roaring in his ears.

"Cas?" Dean asks impatiently, and yes, he needs to answer.

"No, I'll do it myself," he answers, watching himself pull the first aid kit to his side of the table. "Good luck in the search."

He removes the gauze pads as Dean gets up, chair scraping discordantly against the worn tile, setting them out in a row as footsteps head to the door. Reaching for the scissors and tape, he visually measures the appropriate length and starts to cut, each strip placed on the edge of the table.

"Cas," Dean says abruptly, sounding annoyed, "stop sulking and wait for Vera--"

"I've been treating myself for years," he interrupts, leaning over to retrieve the washcloth and squeezing it thoroughly before wiping away the blood that's oozed from the lesser cuts. Drying the area quickly, he carefully sets the first pad in position; he forgot how difficult it is to do this one handed on his own. He's out of practice.

The footsteps return, and Dean grabs the remaining gauze and pads before he can reach for them. "Fine," he says roughly, reaching for Castiel's wrist. "If you're gonna act like a goddamn five year old--"

He jerks his arm back before he realizes what he means to do and feels it in every abused muscle, a ripple of pain that arrows up to his shoulder. Hellhound claws have trace amounts of sulfuric acid, and that seems only to care he's wearing human flesh, not whether or not he's human, which puts a non-sentient chemical ahead of most of the human race as far as that goes. He's not sure what to make of that other than random associative thought is pernicious and very strange indeed, but at least it's not a sheepapus except now it is. Mammalian, that breeds in water, possibly with marsupial tendencies; he should ask Alison so they can both be haunted by a sheepapus with a pouch and what a woolless sheepapus looks like in its immature form.

Cradling his arm against his chest, he looks up at Dean, whose expression is stricken. "I said," he says clearly, "that I can take care of it myself."

"Look--" Closing his eyes, he takes a breath. "Cas, you gotta understand--"

"My actions were reckless and foolish," he drones. "I should not have given the order to retrieve the bodies of Ichabod's dead and endangered your subordinates and civilians with my ill-considered actions. I apologize to my commander for disappointing him with my poor judgment and will offer my apologies to Alison tomorrow for endangering the lives of her people." The sharp pain metamorphoses into a dull throb that from experience will only get worse. "Now, is there anything else, sir?" 

He has the satisfaction of seeing Dean wince; it's not much, but he'll take what he can get. "Seriously?"

"No." Stretching out his arm again, he sucks in a breath at the hot acidic burn and waits for it to fade before reaching for the damp cloth, aware of Dean watching as he cleans away the fresh blood and reaches for the second gauze pad. "You left me in command here while you handled the search, which I assumed meant that I was to use my own judgment. You may disagree with my decision, but I didn't disobey any explicit or implicit orders."

"I didn't say you did--"

"As you are my commander," Castiel continues evenly, "I accept that your judgment is final and I apologize for my actions, but I will not apologize for not agreeing with you or continuing to believe you're wrong."

"They were _dead_ \--"

"Their families aren't." 

There's a brief, uncertain silence that lasts two sides of tape before Dean blows out a breath. "You forgot one part."

"I can't imagine what, I was very thorough."

"Where you took on a Hellhound, alone, and the only reason you're not Hellhound kibble from the second one is Sarah got there in time."

Castiel fumbles the tape, feeling a wash of heat across his face. "I'll do better."

"Cas, it's not about you doing _better_!" Dean shouts. "It's that no one--even you--can do everything! Ten minutes, Cas, that's all you had to do, wait _ten fucking minutes_ \--"

"I can take care of myself."

"I think," Dean says, dangerously quiet, "that today proved that you can't. You can't do everything, Cas, no one can!"

He rips another piece of tape into uselessness, the sound appallingly loud in the quiet of the room. Staring down at the table, he waits until he's certain his hand is steady before discarding the tape and reaching for another piece. "Are you relieving me of duty?"

"Maybe I should, if my only other choice is watching you get yourself killed!" Dean snaps, and numb, Castiel wonders how long he's been waiting for this; surely, he never truly thought it wouldn't.

"Should I consider myself restricted to staying behind Ichabod's walls?" he asks carefully, smoothing another piece of tape into place. "Or should I not leave headquarters without your permission?"

"Christ," Dean mutters. "Now you're being--"

"Or perhaps my room for misbehaving," he continues, adding another piece of tape and reaching for the last pad. "I'm familiar with the usual terms of my confinement when in Chitaqua, but to clarify: should I assume I'm not to leave Chitaqua at all or only when my services are required for a mission?"

The silence stretches impossibly, and he has to force his fingers to close around the next piece of tape without ripping it apart. Then, finally, painfully, Dean says, "Do you think--do you really think I'd--"

"Lock me up for my own good?" He looks up and wishes he hadn't; Dean's white to the lips, and his expression.... "You release a rabid dog from its leash when what you want done requires the actions of a rabid dog--"

"What the _fuck_ \--"

"Then when you're done, you put it back on its leash, because its purpose is fulfilled," he continues ruthlessly, because if he stops now, he may not be able to say it. "The leash is protection, and if it is said to exist to protect others or to protect the dog, what's the _difference_? That doesn't change what it does."

"You're not a fucking dog!" 

"Then I don't need to be leashed!" Dean's lips part, but no sound emerges, and Castiel looks away, staring at the half-finished bandage. "Do you think I haven't heard this before? It doesn't improve on repetition."

He gets another piece of tape in place--he's beginning to think he shouldn't need this much tape--when Dean says in an approximation of his normal voice, "I need to get back."

"So you said," he agrees, though he does find it somewhat interesting he could delay it to remind Castiel of how illusory is his own freedom but not to finish bandaging his arm. "What are your orders?"

"I may not--this is gonna probably take a while," Dean persists roughly, and Castiel supposes he shouldn't be surprised. "You should get some rest. Who's on duty?"

"I am, until isolation ends," he answers. "As Vera was on duty most of the day, I thought I'd leave Amanda or Melanie in charge afterward, but if there's--"

"No, your choice," he says quickly, then with utterly unconvincing lightness. "Cas, come on. You don't need to run every little goddamn thing by me."

"I apologize," he says very clearly. "Amanda is in charge of Chitaqua as soon as isolation ends." 

Dean seems stumped by that, but Castiel's lack of surprise is epic when Dean says, "Look, you're tired, just tell her to check in with you and go to bed. Okay?"

Castiel reaches for another piece of tape, horrified to see his hand is shaking. Even he can't quite manage to ask if that's kinder way of confining him to his quarters; if he doesn't ask, he can pretend it's not. "All right." Then, matching Dean's tone, "I'll speak to Amanda as soon as I'm done here. Other than assure no one dies of alcohol poisoning tonight, there should be little to deal with."

"Good. Awesome." How much tape did he cut? It can't be infinite, yet there's still more and he must put it somewhere. "There's nothing I can say that's not gonna come out wrong, so we'll talk tomorrow. Okay?"

"Of course," he agrees, reaching for another strip of the endless amount of tape and wondering if this qualifies as a temporary reprieve or simply a way to drag out the horror of waiting to hear the inevitable. Dean is kinder, and Castiel thinks he'll try to make it sound reasonable and even pleasant, but he can feel the walls of his cabin, of Chitaqua, closing around him already: it's been called _safe_. Swallowing frantically, he wonders if this room has always been quite this small; it could very much be improved by windows. Or perhaps fewer walls.

"Cas," and there's something in Dean's voice he can't identify, "are you--"

"I'm fine," he says, mechanically smoothing down tape and ignoring the sudden leap of his heartrate, a frantic pounding against his chest like it's as desperate for escape as he soon will be. "Good luck with the search and have a good night." Before he can stop himself, he adds almost frantically, "Please leave the door open when you leave. I'm almost done."

"Sure." Castiel concentrates very hard on the last of the tape until the sound of Dean's footsteps fade before sitting back and blinks at the solid mass of tape covering the better part of his arm. Shutting the first aid kit, he gets up; he thinks he's done here.

* * *

Acquiring a biohazard bag from the supply in the infirmary, Castiel checks with Vera before going to his and Dean' room and opening the balcony doors. The hit of freezing cold is welcome, he crosses through the thin coating of snow covering the stone and climbs up on the solid stone railings, the icy cold cutting through his jeans and numbing his palms as he lets his legs dangle over the side and looks at the stretch of Ichabod, the rise of grey-white walls, and the icy-white world beyond, and breathes.

As if she's standing behind him, he hears Vera say, _Don't panic._

That is a very good idea, yes; he'll get right on that. 

Closing his eyes, Castiel takes a deep breath, then another, tasking something unpleasantly metal on his tongue. Tamping down the adrenal rush and slowing his respiration, he concentrates on returning his heartrate to normal, each breath locking it away until it's gone. Nausea settles low and unpleasant in his stomach, and he's aware of a slowly growing headache, which is exactly what this endless day lacked.

When he's sure everything is as it should be--or what passes for it with him--he slides back onto the balcony, shaking out his numb hands and goes back inside, making a short mental list of what to do next.

Immunity doesn't mean he can afford to be careless; stripping off his bloody clothes, he carefully seals them inside the bag and sets it in the massive granite sink, eyeing the frosted glass of the shower long enough to annoy himself before stepping inside. The hot water almost makes up for it, but he does his work quickly, watching the bloody water swirl down the drain and keeping his mind carefully blank.

Dressing quickly, he returns to the mess, waiting for Vera to glance up from among the group in isolation which now includes Amanda in blatant disregard for the rules of quarantine. Raising her eyebrows in query, she murmurs something to Amanda and joining him at the door. 

Leading her to the infirmary, he asks her, "When did Dean arrive?"

She frowns in thought. "Fifteen, twenty minutes before you got back here. Why?"

Which would be about the time they came back inside the gate. "How was he?"

"Cranky," she answers, wrinkling her nose before the sharp brown eyes narrow as she looks at him, and only belatedly does he remember how well she knows him. "Hold that thought."

"I'm fine," he says shortly as she opens up their drug supply--unlocked because no one here doesn't know how to pick a lock so why bother--and going through the bottles. 

With a satisfied sound, she returns with two pills, then seeing his expression, rolls her eyes, and expertly breaks one in half. "Just a benzo, nothing you haven't played with before, point five to take the edge off and get some sleep: half-now, half before you turn in." Her eyebrow jumps when he frowns. "Yeah, Dean did tell me where you're going as soon as you talk to Amanda, and as your doctor, I agree." She smiles teasingly, and Castiel unclenches his jaw. "We gonna have to play airplane again?"

It's always chasing you; sometimes, no matter how quickly you run, it catches you anyway.

"You're not nearly as amusing as you think you are." He takes the half and puts the other one and a half pills in the pocket of his sweatpants, glaring at her and wondering if he should ask her if she wants to check under his tongue; she will if he asks, so why bother?

"It can't all be recreational," she tells him with mock-sympathy. "Sometimes, they also have therapeutic use. Sit down, and if it helps, there's a reason I asked for these from Dolores."

He does as he's told, making himself not look at the cracked-open door; they'll need to keep their voices down.

"Anyway, Dean," she says, joining him. "He went to check up on everyone, asked me about Alicia and Carol, all that."

Castiel starts to nod when the potential breadth of the word 'everyone' occurs to him. "When you say he went to check on everyone--"

"Yeah, straight to Kat first thing," Vera agrees grimly. "Cas, I swear, I would have thrown myself in front of him if I'd known that was where he was headed. Phil tried," they both wince, "but he ordered him out of the room."

"He was alone with Kat?" Vera nods. "Did Phil hear--"

"Not through these doors," she answers wryly. "Phil said he seemed okay when he came out, but I can tell you Kat isn't picky about her targets, just that she has one."

There's no way to misinterpret that. "What did she say to you?"

"Nothing worth repeating. Grief--it does shit to you, makes you crazy. Not like I can judge," she adds more quietly, the memory of Debra's death in her voice. "People do stupid things when they're hurting."

"That doesn't mean you need to stand still and let her inflict her pain on you," he says sharply, and Vera's eyebrows rise in surprise. He looks away, unable to explain his walk with Callisto; it wasn't until they were done and returned that she told him someone she loved was among those that died. She came to collect Andy's body to fulfill her duty, even though the woman who she thought of as her sister was dead outside the walls and had no hope she would be able to do the same for her. "That wasn't fair, I suppose. Kat's loss was immense."

"I can't say I'm going to be a frequent visitor," Vera tells him, and when he glances up, she's smiling. "I appreciate the concern. Thanks."

He starts to respond when something occurs to him. "Has anyone spoken to you regarding...." Her faint frown is answer enough. "Wait here."

"What?"

Going to the doorway of the mess, Amanda immediately rises to her feet on seeing him; a glance verifies how carefully everyone else avoids his eyes.

"You didn't tell her yet," he says when Amanda joins him, who shakes her head quickly. "Why?" She opens her mouth. "If you say you didn't know you were allowed, I won't even pretend to believe you."

She grimaces. "We thought it'd come better from you," she answers, tipping her head toward those in the mess as if they took a vote. They seem to do that a great deal. 

He supposes reluctantly that she may be correct. "You're right," he says. "As her commander--"

"As her friend," Amanda interrupts, hand coming to rest on his arm. "And the only other person that was in the cabin that night." He stiffens, fighting not to pull away as her hand tightens, blue eyes searching. "Neither of you ever talked about what happened."

"I think it was self-evident what happened," he answers before he can stop himself. "You were among the first to arrive afterward."

"Not the first time I broke orders and sure as fuck isn't the last," she says, stepping closer. "My timing, though...." She wets her lips, eyes fixing on the bandage peeping out from his sleeve. "I knew I forgot to tell Sarah something."

"It wasn't her fault," he admits reluctantly. "It was--an impulse decision, and she had to find a rope." Amanda makes a face. "What would you have done differently?"

"I wouldn't have waited for a rope."

He considers that. "You would have at least shouted for me to catch you first?"

"God, I hope so." Her faint smile fades as she searches his face. "Is everything okay?"

"Dean ordered me off-duty to rest, I assume until he says otherwise." She frowns, but before she can comment, he hastily continues. "After I speak to Vera, inform her of what we learned from Carol and then take charge of the militia until he returns tomorrow."

"I can do that." She tilts her head toward the door. "I'll wait here. Just call if you need me."

"Thank you," he says, starting to the infirmary door again. "This shouldn't take long."

* * *

Returning to his room, Castiel involves himself with the strict routines that precede sleep as demonstrated by Dean. Even so, he can feel the edges sharpening, and taking the other half of the pill, he crosses the room and shoves back the heavy curtains covering the taped glass and plywood of the balcony doors. The chill is immediate, but....

Moving all the bags to the far side of the room, he slides the bed across the floor to align with the wall opposite the balcony, setting the line of sight carefully, and feels himself relax as he finds the perfect position. Moving the wooden crate that holds the lamp to Dean's side of the bed, he arranges the heavy curtains again to block the rest of the doors, then returns to slide gratefully beneath the covers.

Downstairs in the mess, they're doubtless gathering together in the first stages of inebriation to dull their grief; that luxury isn't available to Kat, whose pain is beyond anything ever offered on the rack of Hell; Dean is searching for Micah, and here in their bed, that in Dean's absence is vast and seems impossible to warm, he wishes, painful and futile, that they hadn't argued, that he'd asked Dean to come back, that he had stayed, that he was here now.

Self-pity without the excuse of sufficient alcohol is unpardonable; tucking another pillow beneath his head, he thinks of Callisto and the families who met them at the mortuary, the twenty-six bodies they brought home to them tonight. 

The shivering eases, then stops. Curling into the growing warmth, he surveys the stretch of Ichabod before him; if he had this night to do again, there's nothing he would change.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.) I finished Agile: SCRUM training today! For anyone curious, it's a different testing methodology for QA/QC, and we're starting an enterprise-wide transition from waterfall to this as the pilots went well. 
> 
> 2.) Please see end notes for warnings and author notes (notes are optional).

_\--Day 156--_

Castiel had no intention of falling asleep, but he must have at some point; a shock of burning pain from his arm awakens him. 

Feeling heavy and awkward, he rolls off it, waiting out the excruciatingly slow burn, like a slow drip of diluted acid in his veins. When it's finally died down to a slow, heavy throb, he drops back onto the mattress, resting his arm on the pillow above his head and looking up at the ceiling. 

It's much closer than it should be, he finally decides uncertainly. And seems to be closer still, with every moment that passes.

Sitting up takes far, far too much effort, muscles fighting him blindly, and he has to look for a short eternity at the wall, trying to work out what's wrong; it's the doors to the balcony. They're gone. So are the windows, he realizes, feeling his breath speeding up, and the bathroom door, and the walls are closer, far closer, the bags that were set against the far wall are now only feet away and the door into the hall is....

Before the far wall can come closer (and take the door), Castiel is running through it, ducking to avoid hitting his head despite the fact it can't have grown smaller. The hall's no better, however; it's barely shoulder width and soon won't be even that.

 _Don't panic_ , someone says like a suggestion he learn to breathe water.

Turning away from that narrow (narrowing) hall that won't be shoulder wide, he forces himself to go right, past the terrible marble office and to the back stairs, slamming through the (too small) door to confront stairs barely wide enough for his foot, and when he turns around, there's no door at all. He's in a concrete box and can't get out, a box, a coffin, a body that won't _move_. 

Visualization exercises, someone once told him (who was that stupid?): close your eyes, imagine a wide open field, _there is no door and no stairs and only me and I can't get out_ ; if he had a gun, he would shoot himself; if he could move, he would beat his head against the floor until he was dead, he'll kill anyone who tries to stop him, _I can't move let me out why did you do this let me go_.

He can barely feel, distant and unreal and wrong, a gentle hand on his head. _I'm sorry, son. Never would have done it if I'd known._

He feels his hands clench into fists at his side and his eyes close; the memory of that gentle touch is so fresh he can smell motor oil and sweat and flannel and gunpowder. _Calm down now, boy; we'll fix this._

Impossible, he would have said if he could think or talk or move or breathe; he's glad he didn't, since as it turns out, that was a lie. So many things are, and the best lies are those that are true.

Keeping his eyes closed, Castiel thinks of stairs, wide and deep, burrowing down into solid concrete, builds them as quickly as he can in this moment that he can think; _calm down, don't panic, we'll fix this_.

_Try again._

When he opens his eyes, there's a stairwell, concrete stairs marching downward with a bright green metal rail, as freshly painted as if it'd been done hours before. Turning around, he sees there's no door, but it's only the work of a moment to return it, glass with a view to correctly proportioned hall (it was probably metal, but he needs the reassurance right now).

Facing the stairs again, he debates whether to descend or return to his room (a very good lie, but much like this one, not true at all); he selects the stairs, if for no other reason than curiosity. When he reaches the bottom floor, the narrow hall--barely room to squeeze through--resists only for a moment before widening obligingly before him, and distantly--feet or miles or the length light travels in a year--he sees a spill of yellow-white light onto the floor from the mess, hear the murmur of conversation, and suspects the party's proceeding very, very well.

Pacing down the corridor past endless doors, Castiel clings to his visualization of a wide hall; distance he can deal with, patience is a virtue and he's had (eons of) practice, but not corridors only half as wide as his shoulders.

That doesn't make it less boring, however.

The mess doorway (very wide, very tall, no doors or hinges at all) yawns open before him, and Castiel pauses in the pool of warm light to observe the expected progress of a Chitaqua celebration following a death.

The tables have been pushed back against the walls in some areas to make room for various groups on blankets, exchanging shots and quiet conversation; David is sitting against the western wall, Melanie's head in his lap as they talk quietly, Liz asleep with her head on Melanie's stomach and legs stretched across Daniel. Zoe's groupies (he blames Dean for that term) are in a corner, looking moody in her absence and only slightly stoned; he can't say it's celebratory, but the tense, silent grief seems to have finally found expression and begin to ease. A bright laugh from the far side of the room captures his attention, and in one corner of his mind, he recognizes a poker game in progress at one of the tables, Vera, Jody, Phil, Amanda, and Rob surrounding the table and all looking very competitively drunk indeed. To his surprise, Carol is in the far corner, ensconced in a much better armchair, bandaged leg elevated on a footstool, with Kyle and Kat in attendance. 

Even their recruits are here; Haruhi's team with Christina's, Haruhi appropriating a very willing Derek's lap and talking with Rosario and Sidney while Henry and Victoria trade drinks with Brenda and Sheila. Even Sean's moodiness (either the lack of Zack or three days of his team's constant company or both) seems lightened as he gestures expansively (he's also somewhat drunk) in relating something that must be dramatic if Travis and Martin's expressions are any indication.

In the center of the room is a worn armchair, and sunk into the threadbare, stained cushions is a man, sipping from a glass of whiskey, one leg draped over an arm that the stuffing is fighting (and winning) to escape.

Then the green eyes fix on him.

(Castiel catches movement from the corner of his eye; Mel sitting up, Christina's head turn from her place among several of those talking quietly, Sean's attention distracted from his drink, Sarah looking up, Amanda straightening, Vera stilling--all are looking at him.)

The man smiles. "Look at you. Last time I saw you, you were looking pretty rough."

(Mel lies back down; Christina and Sarah return to their conversations; Sean takes a drink; Vera and Sarah pick up their cards: like nothing happened at all.)

"I'd just done a great deal of fighting," Castiel answers, toes just brushing against the threshold of the room; behind him, the hall is gone and so are the doors. He can't concentrate on them right now; at this moment, standing in this wide doorway to this large, airy, window-filled room, it's all he can do not to go inside. "Where have you been?"

"Around," he answers vaguely, taking another drink, glass briefly flashing metal before it's glass once again. Turning it slowly in his hand, he cocks his head. "You gonna hold up the doorway all night? It doesn't need it."

Castiel looks up at the distant frame of the door; no, he supposes it most definitely does not. Where there was a hallway there's now a wall on either side, solid concrete as thick as a world, and he can feel the wall behind him stop just short of his back. The walls, as it were, are closing in.

"Come on in," the man says invitingly. "Have a drink."

Castiel wishes he could nail his feet to the floor, but if he concentrates on that, he'll move and make it very pointless. "No."

The man lowers his glass with a frown.

(Mel sits up, Christina and Sean turn their heads, Sarah looks up, Amanda straightens, Vera stills--They're all looking at him.)

"Why?" the man asks over the rim of his still-full glass. The walls on either side are inches from his shoulder, and the one behind him is pressed to his back as the doorway before him grows curiously narrower.

"Who are you?"

(They all move closer without moving at all.)

"You know who I am, Cas, come on," the man says, and the glass flashes to a knife before back again. "I'm me. Who else would I be?"

"Tell me your name, then."

The man slumps more deeply into his chair with a smirk. "You know my name."

"Do you?"

The smirk fixes, and everything seems to stop; then he shakes his head.

"Why does it matter?" the man asks with a teasing smile, green eyes alight. "You always come to me in the end anyway."

(They're half-way to the doorway.) 

The doorway is half the size it was. The walls are pressing against his shoulders, his back, the ceiling is almost to his head: a box, a coffin, a body, _stop_.

(They're almost to the doorway and the doorway almost isn't here at all.)

He's trapped in a concrete box; he can't move and he can't breathe, but there's a way out.

"Cas," the man says softly, "stop fighting me; you won't win and dude, you don't even want to." His voice hardens. "Come here. Now."

Castiel steps into the room from the concrete box, onto red stone that shifts beneath his socked feet. Mel is in David's lap, Christina is talking, Sean is drinking, Sarah is sitting, Vera and Amanda are playing cards. 

Seated in the iron chair, Dean puts down his glass with a welcoming smile. "There we go," he says softly. "You look tired. I can help with that."

He is tired. It chases you, you see, and sometimes, it catches up. It's easy to go into his arms, curl up in his lap, tuck his head down on his shoulder, not think at all. Dean's arm tightens around his waist, fingers sliding beneath the edge of his shirt and edge of his sweatpants to close possessively over his hip.

Leaning over, Dean picks up the glass and holds it to his lips; whiskey has always been his preferred choice, another thing that Dean taught him.

"That's it," Dean says approvingly when he drinks it all, lifting it to his own mouth still-full. "How you feeling? Better?"

He nods; he does.

When Dean lowers the glass again, it's a knife. The hilt is wrapped in blood-stained leather shaped to Dean's hand; the blade shines in the dim light, thick with rust, and clotted with old blood and dripping fresh and new; it's formed of Dean's screams on the rack. "When did you get that?"

Dean flips it idly, catching it across the length of the blade to the tip before the handle is pressed against his palm again. "I've always carried it. Almost forgot it was there."

Across the metal of the blade is etched in Dean's own pain: _this is my name._

Then Dean's eyes focus on something else; Mel sits up; Christina and Sean turn their heads; Sarah looks up, Amanda straightens; Vera stills; Castiel follows Dean's gaze to the doorway, miles wide and tall, and sees what is without.

It's dark outside; before he added the lights to Chitaqua's paths, moonless nights always were. That's why they chose it, of course, but a clear night was a mistake. Dean was the only one who knew how well he shot with his left hand, how quickly he could calculate trajectory, and that he didn't need more than the stars to see; Alpheratz was ten degrees from midpoint that night.

"They thought it would be easy, I suppose," Castiel whispers. "Two windows and a door, all in line of sight."

He marks twenty-one faces; those he could see clearly, the vague ovals of those he couldn't see well enough, but none of those he couldn't see at all and could never count. He could hear everything, however; each pair of boots on fall-withered grass and bare dirt; each stuttered, rapid breath; the click of the safety of each weapon. 

That, he could count.

"How many?" Dean murmurs, and Mel and Christina, Sean and Sarah, Vera and Amanda surround the chair. "It wasn't twenty-one, was it? You knew it was more."

He did; he didn't want to; if he thought about it, he'd never sleep again; he can't forget, but all he has to do is not think of it at all.

More appear, spreading out nameless and faceless, one for each click of the safety on each gun. When the last click ends, he asks, "Why do you want to know?"

 _Stop fighting me; you won't win._

"I'm going to kill them for you." Tipping Castiel's chin up, he kisses him, slow, tasting of blood not yet shed. When Castiel looks again, more faces appear; some he thinks were among the crowd on Third on New Year's Eve, others he recognizes from Ichabod's mess. "And you're gonna watch me do it. You'll love it, promise."

_You don't even want to._

Castiel nods dreamily, settling his head back on Dean's shoulder. "As you wish."

* * *

Castiel takes a deep breath, looking into Dean's worried face in the light of the lamp on the other side of the bed. He can feel the hand on his shoulder, each individual finger, the warmth of his skin, the concern in the green eyes; he can also see the ceiling where it should be above his bed.

"Cas?" Dean asks in a way that suggests it's become a refrain. "Are you--"

Sitting up, Castiel verifies the balcony doors are fine, the curtain revealing a slice of Ichabod outside. After checking for windows (present), walls (in their correct places), and both doors (also in their correct places), he lies back down, surprised to hear the hitch in his breath.

He doesn't think he ever coveted the ability to dream (or rather, remember doing it), but he must admit he was curious; he could have lived with curiosity if this is what humans experience every time they shut their eyes.

"Cas--" Dean starts with the disciplined calm that precedes a massive explosion that ends in shattered psyches and some truly disturbing stories about what the Watch experienced that one night.

"I'm fine," he interrupts, reaching for Dean's arm before he can get up and teach everyone the meaning of fear (Dean Edition, Unabridged). There's a vague sense of burning from his arm and what feels like a continuation of the earlier headache picking up where it left off, but he welcomes both; they aren't a shrinking room, concrete box, or...the mess.

Dean seems startled for a moment before catching Castiel's hand as he withdraws it, palms very warm; as it was very cold, that's perfectly acceptable.

"Bad dream," he says truthfully, frowning at Dean. "If I've ever given you the impression I want you to...."

Dean cocks his head. "What?"

"Kill people for me," he says in a rush. "I don't."

He has no idea how he's supposed to interpret that expression. "Was I...ruling the Pit?"

"No," he assures him. "Nothing like that. It was on earth."

Dean ponders that for an excessive amount of time. "Dean?"

"Give me a minute," he says. "Trying to decide if this is better. Demon, assassin--look, your subconscious, what can you do, but any chance a dream with me, I don't know, taking you to a movie or something--anything--that doesn’t involve me doing lots of murder?" 

"It didn't get that far," he explains. "You woke me up before the presumed mass murder."

"Mass murderer, should have known," Dean says thoughtfully. "It is just me or is there a theme here."

"It wasn't you." He shakes his head at Dean's incredulous expression. "It wasn't. I mean," he corrects himself to avoid what will be Dean's next thought, "it wasn't either of you."

"Just what, looked like me?"

"I suppose," Castiel agrees uncertainly, trying to remember. "He was nothing like you, however. Also, someone Kat-shaped was being very pleasant to an equally pleasant Carol-shape and Kyle-shape, and no one was intoxicated at all despite the amount of alcohol that was being consumed. It was a room of vaguely-familiar pod people whose only distinction was being far more boring and somewhat uncomfortably predatory. Are dreams always so...."

"Oh yeah. Sometimes," Dean says, "you're also naked and reciting goddamn _Romeo and Juliet_ to every English class you were ever in. And they all look like Dad."

"I prefer the one I had," he says, unable to suppress the shudder at the thought of John Winchester glaring at him from every direction. Possibly aware of what Castiel is doing with his son, even.

"Yeah, I'm liking yours better, now that I think about it," Dean agrees, mouth quirking. "Though seriously, try for a nice, bloodless movie night, no one dies or tortures anyone else. Something less realistic, is what I’m saying. Pure fantasy."

"We have movie nights," Castiel protests. "In our living room. I enjoy them very much." He starts to elaborate on that when he realizes something. "I thought you weren't returning until morning. Did you find Micah?"

Dean's hands tighten around his fingers, making a very tight but very warm cocoon; provided he breaks nothing important, Castiel can't complain. Any moment now, he may be able to feel his fingers again. 

"No," Dean starts, looking at some point near his right shoulder. "I--uh. Came back."

Dean is sitting very close and is, he knows, an excellent source of heat. There must be some convenient way to access more of it than he's receiving via Dean's (very warm) hands, but the how escapes him. He suspects it's very obvious, and also suspects at this moment he's not at his best. Endlessly running through increasingly narrow halls and being trapped in tiny concrete rooms probably explains that, he supposes distantly. Even ones that only exist in one's mind.

"Joe took over, was probably glad to get rid of me...." Dean trails off, looking down at their hands as if they're supposed to continue that sentence for him. Then he says, "Cas, are you okay?"

"I don't like dreaming." Focusing on Dean's face, he asks the first thing that he can think of. "Did you happen to go by the mess before coming up here?"

Dean suddenly looks guilty. "Yeah, I did," he says in the same tone one might admit to visiting a crack den or being in the bed of a person not one's partner without their knowledge or consent or perhaps, Spartacus's army before running away just as the crucifixions began. Something like that. "I was just checking in, making sure the kids were..."

"Not comatose from alcohol poisoning," he finishes, nodding; that is not an unreasonable concern. "How are they?"

"Drunk or trying their damndest."

Castiel sits up, shoving a pillow behind his back and trying not to watch the walls or the ceiling. "Dean--"

"I was out of line earlier," Dean says quickly, almost like he's just remembered a speech he's been working on for some time (about four hours, give or take). "I shouldn't have said--well, any of it. And I shouldn’t have left like that." The green eyes meet his without flinching, but nothing about him isn't braced for a blow. "So how badly did I fuck up?"

Castiel searches for the earlier anger, but the freshness is gone, stripped of its heat. All that's left is unformed dissatisfaction, an uncomfortable heaviness in his chest that becomes much worse when he looks at Dean, a strong desire to justify himself (again) and make Dean admit (line by line) that he was right, but inexplicably, there's an even stronger one to do something--anything--so Dean doesn't look like that.

It's so strange; there was a time the anger never stopped, until he forgot he even felt it, clutching it so tightly he couldn't even remember what it felt like to let it go. He can think of a dozen potential responses calculated to leave wounds that could be years in the healing, drive Dean Winchester from his presence as he did countless times for no better reason than he could. He used to _enjoy it_. Dean is vulnerable in ways that his predecessor wasn't; he could be subtle and careful and far, far more cruel. He could inflict wounds that would never heal at all. And unlike his predecessor, Dean would let him.

He could disembowel himself as well, and that at least has the advantage of hurting only himself. And be far more enjoyable.

"Just tell me," Dean says roughly, and it's only Castiel that would ever be able to hear the minute break in his voice. "Dude, say anything you want here. I sure as hell deserve it."

"Nothing happened that can't be mended with discussion, and sufficient groveling, of course," he answers distractedly, not looking at the windows or the doors. The half-life of a benzo is usually three to five hours, and he can feel the walls not-closing, the ceiling not-lowering, the windows staying very well indeed.

Abruptly, Dean moves closer, warm hand tilting up his face, green eyes searching, and the hand holding his shifts, thumb pressing against his pulse. "What's going on? You okay?"

The most ridiculous part of it all; he can deal with experiencing it and even Vera knowing it, but he cannot and has never been to able to _talk about it_. It's maddening, like saying words to frame the experience will make them true; that it's not just in his own mind that it is happening. He's never worked out why; if he's afraid he'll be told it's real, or that it's real and they'll lie and say it's not. To protect him, like a child, like a pet, like a dog on a leash....

"Fuck," Dean breathes at the spike in his heart-rate and straightening, he looks at the balcony doors, the slice of the world outside the open curtain, then back to Castiel. "Right, give me a second, okay?"

Castiel wonders what that's supposed to mean, but Dean stands up, stripping off his flannel and wrapping it around Castiel's shoulders (why?) before abruptly dragging all the bedding off the bed. 

"Dean?" Dragging up his legs, he watches incredulously as Dean goes to the balcony doors and opens them to expose the room to what feels very much like the early stages of an ice age. "What are you--"

"It's fine, stopped snowing," Dean reassures him, stepping outside with a hiss in nothing but his thermal and undershirt and stomping around. "Could really use a goddamn broom, but this'll work. No wind."

"Work for _what_?"

Coming back inside, Dean looks at him patiently before picking up (with an effort) the masses of blankets and sheets and _goes back outside_. 

"Grab the pillows," he calls out, and Castiel does on sheer inability to think of anything else to do. Going to the doorway, he sees Dean spread sheet and quilt (for value of 'spread' when it's more a bunched mass of material. Looking up, Dean reaches out a peremptory hand. "Give me those." When he does (he can't think of why he shouldn't), Dean arranges the pillows to his satisfaction and sits down, looking at Castiel expectantly. "Sit down," he clarifies, patting the space between his thighs. "Hurry, it's kind of cold."

It occurs to him Dean may very well be a genius. "Yes," he answers vaguely, joining Dean on the blanket. "I'll do that."

In only moments, he finds himself in what is inarguably among the best places he's ever been in all his existence: tucked against Dean's chest and between his legs, in a nest of blankets beneath the entire sky. When he regains blood flow and his teeth stop chattering, he may even comment to that effect, but that would take important time from simply being. Tucking his head against Dean's neck and almost beneath the edge of the thick bedspread and other quilt, he feels Dean's fingers loosely circle his wrist, thumb sliding down along his pulse point, but far more important (at the moment) is a brush against his hair, a breath of warmth.

Drawing up his knees more closely, he concentrates on the feel of fresh (icy) air and the body-warmth of Dean's flannel that smells like him: Chitaqua's detergent is almost lost beneath a hint of sweat and snow and cold and whiskey (of course), Ichabod's soap, and the rich, faintly musky scent that's a hundred different things that make up Dean. He would find it everywhere before, but now it's saturated their clothes in the shared drawers, the sheets on their beds both here and at home, even his own skin from Dean's touch or his mouth or wallowing with him in bed.

Breathing him in, Castiel settles himself; if he doesn't do this now, he never will. "Is my commander available by any chance?"

He feels Dean stiffen before deliberately relaxing. "I beat him to death, why?"

He should have guessed, yes. "And my partner?"

"Left him for you," Dean answers, voice not entirely steady. "Anyone ever tell you he's a dick? You could do better."

He opens his mouth and an unexpected laugh erupts, pressing his forehead against the stubble-scratch of Dean's jaw: how ridiculous and terribly distracting. "Could you resurrect my commander? I need to--I need to explain."

"You got nothing to explain," Dean says, certainty and guilt so mixed there's no way to tell where one ends and one begins. "Especially to him."

"I would tell my partner," he says, ruthlessly suppressing the urge to laugh. "But right now, I suspect he'd agree with anything I said, no matter how inane, including the steps by which I could disembowel him."

It's such a novel thought, almost impossible to believe is true; then again, Dean is always impossible. 

"Please. I need to explain, and consider it incumbent on you to listen for reasons, insert any you like, provided you do it."

Dean doesn't answer for a moment, but he knows Dean's body; he'd deny him nothing right now, but he takes the time to brace himself for what he might hear. "Yeah. Go ahead."

"We found Bobby's body a week after he died." He keeps his eyes closed, concentrating on the warmth of Dean's flannel to steady himself. "It might have been as much as ten days, it was unseasonably cold, and...." That part's not important. "We brought him back to Chitaqua to burn."

Dean nods, a light pressure against his hair.

"I didn't ask why we did that," he continues. "No matter who it was or what they seemed to die of, they'd be burned where they were. It was practical; Croatoan can survive so long, it's practically immortal unless consumed in salt and fire. Even at Alpha, among our own hunters, suspected Croat didn't enter the walls again as anything but ashes: outsiders, no matter how familiar, no matter their method of death, never."

"Makes sense," Dean offers in something very like his normal voice. Then, "Son of a bitch, that's why you didn't want to bring the team leaders back to Chitaqua?" He slumps back against the pillows, letting out a breath. "I didn't even think there might be a reason you didn't. No wonder you were pissed at me all the time--did I do that a lot back then?" 

Castiel is momentarily struck dumb by how many contradictory answers he has to that question in general, and it's almost a relief to realize he could simply confine his answer to the specific.

"No, that's not the reason. You were right, which had already quickly become annoying, if you're curious. Bobby was the first we brought to Chitaqua to burn, but not the last; no matter their manner of death, no matter the suspicion of Croatoan, no matter how long it took to find them, we brought our hunters home to burn." He swallows. "I never asked why we instituted that policy in direct contradiction to that Dean established at Alpha; I never even questioned it, or even thought about it. I helped Dean instruct and drill everyone in the precautions until they were reflexive; we retrieved the bodies, prepared them as best we could considering their state, those who wished to were allowed to view them, and at dusk, everyone gathered together and we burned them. Dean never explained, of course, but in this case, it was simply because we both knew why."

Dean remains silent, and he wonders what he's thinking. He gives himself a moment (to brace himself) then sits up, immediately pulling the flannel closer against the chill as he looks at Dean. "If Ichabod hadn't shared that tradition--if they did things a different way--I would have respected that, of course. They don't, however; the only deterrent for them isn't the risk, but what is _possible_."

Dean catches his breath. "That's why you went out there."

"Croatoans weren't the problem--or at least, less of one, and I suspect Ichabod's patrol would have already been planning how to get them if not for one other thing they can't hope to fight and win. I can count the number of humans on one hand who have successfully killed a Hellhound and survived, and it's only double that who managed the first alone; Ichabod's patrol is very skilled, yes, but they'd have no chance at all, and they knew it. They share our traditions, and like us, they measure risk against what is gained, but they aren't foolish; like us, they know what's not possible." He wets his lips and feels them almost immediately go numb. "That doesn't mean it didn't hurt, and wouldn't continue to hurt, every time any of them saw those bodies on the ground that close--only the ward line--and they couldn't get them."

"And Croats making a snack of 'em when they got bored," Dean says quietly, green eyes unreadable.

Castiel nods. "It wasn't possible for them to retrieve the bodies, it was not risk but certainty that stopped them; that is not true for me. I could distract the Hellhounds, and I can kill them; all those I trained know how to fight them, how to avoid it, and most important of all, how to judge which of those two things to do. I didn't order anyone to assist me--I made it clear it was not a mission and no one was required to come--but I'm their commander, and my example might have influenced them against their own inclinations--"

"Dude," Dean interrupts, sounding strained. "I just came off a thousand mile run with five of your goddamn students, and I wouldn't have believed that shit _before_ Alicia played tag with Croats while Amanda went sniper on a demon like it was her goddamn birthday."

He must admit, they did seem rather enthusiastic. Putting that firmly aside, he returns to the point. "I don't regret it, and I would do nothing different," Dean's left eye twitches alarmingly, "but you're my commander, and you decide policy. If you feel the risk is greater than--is too great, then I'll...obey your orders."

Dean starts to answer before he abruptly closes his mouth, sitting back against the pillows to regard Castiel as if he just said something very profound. "You'll obey. If I say, no more going out to retrieve bodies, whatever, you're okay with that."

"I didn't say that," he answers, feeling the chill cut through the flannel as if it's not there at all. "I said I'd obey; I didn't say I'd be okay with it."

"Right, that's actually a valid point," Dean agrees, still watching him. "Tell me why I should let you."

He didn't expect that. "What?"

"Tell me why--as your commander--I should let you, and by extension Chitaqua, go out and retrieve bodies for Ichabod. Or anyone: once you start that kind of thing, it gets around."

Rapidly, Castiel reviews the entire preceding conversation; this isn't a dream (he thinks) but his two experiences suggest that can be deceptive. "I just told you why--"

"You told me," Dean says evenly, "why Ichabod does it for theirs. You told me why we do it for ours. You've given me no reason whatsoever why you--and Chitaqua--should risk their lives for Ichabod's dead. Or anyone else's, for that matter, let's go there: why? We're not talking saving lives, Cas; we're talking mortuary services here."

Frantically, Castiel reviews his early arguments and realizes that point is covered nowhere in them, and while there are several possibilities, there are holes in them all. "Our agreement with the Alliance--"

"Did not cover dead body retrieval," Dean interrupts smoothly as Castiel reviews the entire agreement to the subclause; he didn't expect it to be mentioned specifically, but he'd hoped for more ambiguity, somewhere. Anywhere. "Come on, Cas, you had a reason, don't throw in the bullshit about tradition and sad people's feelings; their loved ones are dead, they're gonna be sad, the bodies may do something for them, may not, but we're talking reasons, real ones here."

"Those are real reasons," he argues, vaguely aware this conversation is starting to resemble the earlier one but unable to stop it. "I don't know what you want."

"If you can't tell me why--"

"I told you why!"

"You told me why we do it and why they do it, but you haven't told me why we should do it for them," Dean says in the same frighteningly even voice. "Pay or play, Cas, we don't have all night; one roll, winner takes all, you place your bets and take your chances--"

"Because I could!"

Dean blinks at him.

"It was all of those things I said," he says, not sure why he's talking but he can't seem to stop. "But it's also this. When you see someone fall and they hurt themselves, you don't think of the traditional history of falling and its application to this specific moment for relevance; you ask them--provided they're conscious, verbal, and not concussed--if they need help up and follow their directions, and discard the question altogether if all three of those criteria aren't met. If someone can't lift something, you help them; if it's beyond their strength or abilities for some reason, you do it for them. If someone stumbles, you catch them; if they're thirsty and you have water, share it; if they're hungry and you have food, offer it; if they're tired, give them somewhere to rest; if they're threatened by a vampire or a more aggressive than average gnome or insert creature here, protect them; if they hurt, provide comfort in whatever method they require; if they are there, and so are you, if you can, you _should_. My question is, all things being equal and in the absence of any compelling reason to do otherwise, why on earth would anyone _not_?"

Dean's eyebrows--which have steadily been climbing--reach maximum ascension and visibly struggle to go higher. He has no idea whatsoever how to interpret that.

"If you wished me to do otherwise," he adds determinedly, "you should not have modeled its opposite so thoroughly."

He wonders uncertainly if Dean's mouth just twitched. "Dude, you didn't get that from me. That's all you, buddy."

Licking numb lips (and regretting it, why does he keep doing that in this weather?), he shakes his head, ignoring Dean's frown. "The Host is not taught of human suffering; they accept it as a given, and like many things, it has always been unquestioned. Joy is deceptive and fleeting, pain is constant, all that is lived and experienced on earth is but a short, brutal prologue to eternal rest."

Dean makes a face. "Okay, that's--not entirely wrong."

"It's a greeting from a substandard Hallmark card--albeit a highly experimental line that you'd only send to people in the hope they'd hang themselves in response--with less emotionally complexity than 'Get Well Soon'," he retorts. "Gaze on a single grain of sand and then presume you now know the nature of the cosmos: your ignorance would be appalling but still less than that of the Host, who never bothered to so much as _look_." 

"And you started looking," Dean says softly.

"You asked," he whispers, "why I continued to stare at a single grain of sand when there were mountains to be seen. All I had to do was look up." He looks away. "Human misery may be ubiquitous to the human experience but it's not synonymous with it--I feel I could have phrased that better, but I truly can't bring myself to care--and we can reduce it, and in its absence joy will grow. And if we can, we should."

"You convinced me." Dean voice wobbles oddly. "We'll--uh, we'll do that. Keep doing it." 

Castiel looks up, biting back the smile at the hot flush across Dean's cheeks. "I rather thought you'd understand."

Dean ducks his head with a low chuckle, dragging Castiel willingly into his arms and pulling the blankets over them again. "Not like you didn't do anything I wouldn't have done."

"I hoped I wouldn't need to point that out," he tells Dean contentedly, tucking his freezing nose against Dean's less-freezing neck. "I don't particularly like fighting with you." 

"I _should_ have done it," Dean says more softly, and from the resigned sound of his voice, he's been waiting to say that for some time. "That's on me, Cas. Ran out of there, forgot all about them."

"The search," he starts, then realizes this might take a while if he takes that tact. "You did what you were supposed to do. There are, after all, supposed to be two weights."

Dean's arms tighten. "Uh. What?"

"I see what you mean now," he continues; they really can't stay out here much longer, Dean is going to become chilled and he needs his sleep. "I thought you were being facetious, but you were right." Reluctantly, he lifts his head and looks into Dean's eyes (and controls the potential chatter of his teeth). "You were unequivocally right on all points without a single exception; it's not something you can do alone and most definitely shouldn't, there are two weights, and I am very glad I accepted your offer to bear one of them."

This close, Dean has without a doubt the most perfect eyes in the world. (He, too, should probably be asleep.)

"You," Dean's voice wavers. "You told me you couldn't do it, remember?"

He did say 'all points', but he can be generous. "As it turns out, I can. You were right about that as well."

"Did you sprain something?" Dean asks, mouth curving in a slow smile. "Saying all that?"

"The truth always hurts," he concedes reluctantly. "That's why no one likes it. Can we go inside now? You're shivering, and it could be my own exhaustion speaking, but you may also be turning blue."

Dean's hands come to rest on his cheeks, staring at him like he's not sure what he is. "So your commander had to leave before he could get to the part where you thought it'd be a good idea to face down a Hellhound alone so you could explain..." He chuckles softly, looking at him--no one's ever looked at him like Dean does. "He'll talk to you about that tomorrow, okay? In detail."

Castiel gracefully concedes tomorrow--today?-- _later_ would be much better, yes. "And my partner wishes to say something now?"

"Your boyfriend...." Still grinning, Dean tugs him into a kiss, and Castiel forgets he's ever--in his entire existence--known the meaning of cold.

* * *

Despite being (possibly) blue, Dean insists on handling remaking the bed while Castiel occupies with watching him do it. This isn't in any way a problem; Dean breathing in his general vicinity is the height of entertainment, and in motion is--somehow higher.

Snuggling under the replaced blankets, he yawns as Dean pulls the curtain into position, leaving the exact same opening to reveal Ichabod outside, before glancing back at Castiel.

"Yes," he agrees, then reluctantly adds after a careful internal check and considering Dean's vulnerability to the cold, "but it's probably not necessary right now." 

"You like it, so it's necessary," Dean says, going to their bags and changes in record time; Castiel's only regret is that he can't see to Dean's dressing and undressing himself, a regret he carries every single day. When he comes to bed, Castiel doesn't bother to wait before curling up against him and doesn't even wince despite the fact nothing--even vacuum space--lacks as much heat as Dean's feet. In the (will soon be) warm darkness, he hears Dean says, "You usually go roof-sitting or camp-walking when you feel like that, head it off, I guess. What happened this time?"

"How did you--"

"You told me." He did, yes, but he didn't expect Dean to extrapolate that so well (what a stupid thought: Dean can do anything). "Was it me? What happened earlier? I set it off?"

He would lie--happily, with a clear conscience and without regret--but fortunately, he doesn't need to. "No." Reaching down, he thrusts a hand into the pocket of his sweatpants and finds it at the bottom in an unexpected crease. Removing the pill, he places it in Dean's surprised hand. "Alprazolam, point five milligrams," he answers sourly. "During those times one's drug use isn't as it should always be, recreational. Vera prescribed it."

Dean looks up from his squint at his palm. "When she lived with you, something happened?"

"Yes. She recognized the signs and told me what it was. I had assumed it was some sort of obscure damage from Falling that would eventually kill me, but as it turned out, it was perfectly mundane overstimulation of the central nervous system responding to emotional stressors resulting in an adrenal dump leading to an artificial flight-or-fight reaction; when some set of arbitrary conditions are met, all that is needed is a trigger or something, she used many more word, of course. In Latin."

After checking with him, Dean reaches over to set it by the lamp on the wooden crate. "Used to be worse?"

"Much," he says. "And more frequent. The--disagreement--didn't help, no, but that alone wouldn't be enough." He remembers Sean's ridiculous behavior outside Nate's room and what Alicia said about Chitaqua being surprisingly calm for so many volatile (to say the least) soldiers in one place. It might even explain Kat's volatility, for that matter. "Earlier, Vera told me if it made me feel better, there was a reason she got those scripts from Ichabod, which I can infer means it wasn't just me that needed them. Remind me in the morning to place candles in all areas that we congregate in."

"The geas." Dean blows out a breath that's almost a snarl before abruptly sitting up. "The party downstairs--"

"Like most compulsives, a geas takes advantage of human neurochemistry," Castiel interrupts. "Unless the person or persons who created this showed more foresight in this one area than in anything else they've done, it wasn't ever met to deal with a depressive, which alcohol definitely is, especially with what we have here."

"So if we got the whole town drunk...."

"I do see the irony," Cas agrees, but to his displeasure, Dean slides out of bed with a hiss, hunting for his boots.

"Just gonna send everyone to bed," Dean tells him, pulling on another flannel over his thermal as he starts for the door. "Give me five minutes, okay?"

It's longer than five minutes, but eventually, Dean returns in desperate need of being warmed (though Castiel makes a note to have Vera examine Dean's feet at his next physical for blood flow; nothing can be that cold).

"Vera, Matt, and Jeremy helped," Dean tells him when his teeth stop chattering, settling in with a contented sigh. "She'd just come back from the infirmary; she and Dolores examined Carol's leg after she took her back earlier."

"How is she?"

"No change," Dean answers quietly, and Castiel knows he's thinking about Carol's bandaged leg. "Which she said doesn't mean much but Carol has more time."

Castiel nods; Vera might doubt her skill, but that's not the only reason she thinks the surgery on Carol's leg didn't work. Even had Darryl (sober and clean) performed the surgery in a fully-equipped surgical unit, it might not have been enough with the kind of damage that a Hellhound does to a human body. That she hadn't died during that attack is a testament to Carol's skill, but when not otherwise occupied or when they have no need for a quick kill, a Hellhound's attack is meant to mutilate, to maim, to do immense damage, as much as possible while the prey is still living, before they finally kill.

"She also said," Dean adds in a different voice, "that Rem--one of the guys from Volunteer Services killed himself a couple of hours ago."

"I thought everyone was being watched?"

"They were, but Vera said he seemed okay," Dean says softly. "There was an emergency in the infirmary, they thought he was asleep, ran down to help, and he...." There's a pause. "He was waiting for that, I guess. He was on the second floor. He tied his bedsheets together, made a noose, and jumped out the window. Didn't hold long, but enough to break his neck." 

He nods against Dean's shoulder, not sure how to offer comfort or if Dean even realizes he needs it. "Teresa and Wendy are still working on retrieving the original instructions, but how much that may matter to guessing the future effects depends on how much it alters as it passes, now in infinite variation."

"Stupid question," Dean says, and something in his voice makes Castiel tense. "We have any idea yet how to get rid of this for good? I get knowing more about this will help, but that part, I haven't quite worked out yet."

"There are an infinite number of ways to remove a compulsive, even a mass one," he answers slowly. "However, we must have the original to narrow it down. This isn't what is possible, but what is _practical_. The one most likely to work right now is the most impractical; Teresa gaining enough power from the earth to lift them from discrete groups and isolating those who still have it from those who don't. But--"

"A lot of power, a lot of time, a lot of people, and how the hell do we divide the town between 'isolated' and 'not' longer than a day, maybe two?" Dean says for him. "And Alison...?"

"Alison is very powerful in potential and unpracticed in what power she has in fact," he explains; it's far easier to discuss what Alison can do than explain what she can't and why. "Alison hasn't--as far as Teresa and Wendy can ascertain--been affected by the geas despite the fact she is probably the most exposed person in Ichabod."

"All those tours of Third through Seventh," Dean agrees with a sigh. "And thank God for that, or I don't even want to know what would happen with her in a catalyst event."

"Try not to even try to imagine it," he answers, feeling Dean's hand start to stroke his back. "Psychics do have some inbuilt defenses against coercives, but Teresa is almost certain it's her shielding, which she has improved at immensely since this started."

Dean tilts his head down to look at him. "Good job, Professor Cas."

"I would normally be more modest, but yes," he agrees and is rewarded with Dean's smile. "Or rather, our sessions together; she's an excellent student and I was very thorough as she advanced. If she'd had direct contact with the maps, it would be useless, but now it's going between people, and that does have a very small psychic component, and that much protects her. Would that I could work out how to teach people who aren't not psychic to do that; it would fix this very quickly."

"Can they?" Dean asks doubtfully. "I mean, not being psychic and all? Wouldn't that be like trying to teach someone red-green colorblind to see red or something?"

"A stop sign is always red," he explains after thinking about it for a moment. "That's a standard used on roads to denote 'stop'. Even if you couldn't visually discern the color yourself, because it's standard you have learned its color is called 'red'."

Dean looks even more dubious. 

"It's not helpful now, no," he admits. "But working so closely with Alison has familiarized me with human perception and given me context on how to translate my own knowledge to fit her abilities. It's not a question of 'possible', but more...'yes, but not yet'."

"You're adding this to the List, aren't you?" Dean asks with a warmth that makes Castiel curl closer.

He nods. "I am, once we deal with...everything else."

"Fair enough."

Dean nods, and Castiel almost thinks they dodged the evitable bullet that is Dean's tendency to dwell when the stroking comes to a stop.

"Everything else, yeah. How long until...." He hears Dean inhale sharply before continuing. "How far along is the sacrifice now anyway? We're what, two days from the barrier going the way of the dodo, so..."

He'd lie--happily, in relief, to both of them--if he knew what answer either of them wanted to hear. That leaves only honesty; twice two thousand lives must end to do this, and it's simply math. Crowley said it would be fast, but these are demons; they'll assure there's sufficient time for pain. 

"Unless something went very wrong, with the potential number of people, the circle should have been closed two days ago at the latest and the sacrifice begun. No matter how well controlled or powerful their master, these are demons; their master will use as few as possible to do this, both to avoid the possibility of them making a temporary alliance against him to gain the power and overpower him, and to make killing them all very easy when they're done."

Dean doesn't say they don't even know if the circle works; he doesn't say they should hope it does or that it doesn't; he doesn't mention Erica or the Misborn or the geas again; he doesn't list all the ways that they could die, because there is one way that they most certainly will; if the circle doesn't work, if the barrier doesn't come up, if it comes up too late, they won't survive, and no one else will, either. All the ways they could die, but that one--the one that could render all the others moot or at least less dangerous--is the only one they cannot control and would have stopped if they could.

And for twenty-seven people yesterday, none of that matters at all. He doesn't think it should--even be for a moment--considered an advantage to be dead simply on the strength of not having to worry anymore when and how you'll die. 

"I attacked a Hellhound with nothing but my knife without backup," he says abruptly. "I could very well have been maimed by a second one if Sarah hadn't shown initiative beyond which I assure you anyone who has ever met her could possibly have expected. Did anyone tell you--"

"What," Dean says incredulously, "are you doing?"

"--that she beat it with her rifle until it ran away?" he finishes desperately. "I was very reckless and should be spoken to firmly on the subject, truly I deserve it. Now is an excellent time."

Castiel lands (painlessly) on the bed as Dean sits up, staring down at him as if he's gone insane (that was years ago, they should all move on now). "Christo."

"You, on the other hand, killed six to eight Croats while bravely protecting the wall and the gate, ran almost three miles chased by more of them while shooting them when possible, and in what is possibly the most dramatic moment of any mission I've ever seen, entered the postern door at the very last moment," he says, ignoring Dean breathing an exorcism with a truly terrible accent; they'll work on that. "If we go back a day earlier, you--"

"Are we really going to run through the Ichabod Adventures _right now_?" Dean demands.

"Only the ones we survived," he answers reasonably. "That would be all of them. I could be wrong, but I think we're on a streak."

Dean glares at him for another moment before dropping back on the bed with the most put-upon sigh ever uttered by any human being. Rolling over, he shoves an arm under Castiel's shoulders and jerks him closer. "Is this your version of thinking positive?"

"How am I doing?" he asks, sliding an arm around Dean's waist, eyes already falling closed. "Feedback would be appreciated, of course."

"Let me think about it," Dean murmurs against his hair. "Get back to you in the morning."

* * *

Dean wakes at dawn with the impression his right hand and forearm are being crushed beneath the Chrysler Building: holy _shit_.

"Dean?" Cas says sleepily, rubbing his stubbled cheek against Dean's shoulder like a really sexy cat (wait, what?), which any other time Dean would be able to fully appreciate and not simply note as happening. "Are you okay?"

HE doesn't even try to unfist his hand; that way lies possible whimpering. "Bathroom," he says in a decent imitation of his normal voice. Stroking down Cas's back with his left, he drops a kiss against his hair without thinking about it and wonders when he started doing that. "Be right back, okay?"

With a sigh like someone just asked to run a marathon, Cas shifts onto the pillow while glaring at him from behind tangled brown hair and giving the impression Dean's doing this just for spite or something. Sitting up, Dean also notes being in pain does in no way affect his reaction to a sleepy, rumpled Cas in a sea of bedding; it's like domestic porn or something. A little desperate, he reviews centerfolds from every magazine that comes in a plastic shame wrap and by the time he hits the bathroom is resigned to the fact they may still be hot, but not as hot as that.

Dean thinks, just to check: my sleepy boyfriend in a perfectly normal bed is sexier than porn. For fuck's sake, those are cotton sheets you buy two for the price of one at _Walmart_.

(Walmart: best place to shop at midnight when you got some corpses and nothing to wrap 'em in. He's comparison-shopped this shit in twenty-two states; he _knows_.)

Dean takes care of urgent bathroom business left-handed (that he's used to) before going to one of the unsettlingly wide marble sinks that never ceases to make him wonder uneasily what the fuck lawyer guy was thinking and turning on the hot water. Someone (Dane, probably) did something Dean assumes was not a blood sacrifice (though in this case, not entirely opposed) that turned their kind-of sometimes not-cold water into actual hot water. Which means a building no one uses in Ichabod that they started occupying four days ago is doing better on water than their camp.

(Potable water is happening, one way or another.)

As soon as it's just below scalding, Dean turns on enough cold water to not end up with almost-burns before shoving his hand beneath the excellent water pressure coming from the faucet, stiffening at the bright shock of pain from muscles not into the 'relaxing' thing. It's almost impossible to imitate Cas's massage magic period, much less with one hand, but he does try, rubbing his thumb into the center of the palm and trying to replicate by memory what he usually experiences in a state of not-entirely-exaggerating euphoria and only remembers as 'oh God yes'. 

Sure, he could ask Cas to help, like someone sensible and rational, but call him crazy, he's kind of not okay with demanding his boyfriend take care of his poor fucking muscle cramps after so spectacularly fucking up taking care of his actual _bleeding Hellhound wounds_.

Eventually, he feels the stiff muscles start to respond and makes a note to get the wrist brace that was helpfully packed up with Cas's drugs and various medical paraphernalia by Mel and brought to Ichabod. 

With a sigh, he looks in the mirror and freezes at the utterly familiar face that is reflected back at him; it's like looking at a perfect copy of himself. A glint of something gets his attention, and in the mirror, beneath the spray of steamy water, he sees his fingers tightly curled around a knife.

Dean doesn't remember moving, but the sharp pain in his head and the abrupt distance between him and the sink suggest he's flat against the opposite wall, hand throbbing anew. Automatically, he steadies his breathing, using every trick he learned on a thousand hunts to remain calm; only then does he look down and see his fisted hand is wrapped around nothing at all. Before he can think about it too hard, he lifts it up and the mirror shows the same goddamn thing: nothing there.

Dean thinks: long day, not enough sleep, Andy, Carol, Erica, Alicia (don't think about that), Hellhounds, fight with Cas, killed twenty-seven people, everything fucking thing else. Not a surprise, come to think: the surprise is he isn't hallucinating himself up a real machine gun and taking out everyone on spec.

It still takes him a long couple of minutes to move and even longer to finally turn off the water. Looking into the mirror, the only face he sees now is his own.

* * *

"Breakfast," Dean tells the lump of Cas beneath the covers and takes the vague seismic shift of bedding as either acknowledgment or Cas's way of saying he's not moving and if breakfast must be had, it will come to him.

He can do that. "Be right back."

After checking in at front desk and being handed reports (so literally nothing is an excuse not to turn in reports), a stack of messages (they--get those now), and Jeremy transparently watching the door for Joelle, Dean braces himself before looking in on the mess.

It's not as bad as he thought.

The main area looks like someone (several someones) did the bare minimum to get it functional again (all tables and chairs upright and in some kind of eating position), and the kitchen is spotless. Brenda and Alonzo apparently have been up since before dawn if the fact there's actual food on the stove cooking is any indication.

"Rice, beans, oatmeal," Brenda recites. "Our breads of the day are naan, cornbread, and corn tortillas." She waves toward Alonzo, who's cutting up cornbread while keeping a sharp eye on a tortilla pan on one of the burners where four are frying. "We're still deciding on lunch, but assume rice will be part of it."

"Lunch existing is all I ask," Dean promising, failing to acquire his own dishes or silverware when Alonzo frowns at his approach. Retreating to the counter, he watches Alonzo take out two bowls and a plate before hunting up silverware. Dean would worry this is some kind of 'serve the leader' thing, but this is Brenda and he's getting to know Alonzo, and he suspects they're just really possessive of the kitchen and all within its domain. "How are supplies anyway?"

What he means is 'how are we not debating the morality of cannibalism yet anyway'?

"No idea," Alonzo answers, flipping the tortillas before indicating Dean should choose his bread (he points to the cornbread). "One of us stops by, get our daily bundles, take it to the jeep."

Huh. "Beans and rice," he says, when Brenda looks at him significantly. "Who's working supply besides Lanak?"

"Lanak," Alonzo and Brenda say together, Alonzo adding at Dean's blink, "About nine months ago, a barrel of salted meat disappeared. As it turns out, Tony approved it be taken but forgot to tell her. Short version, he was at the power plant all day and didn't know there was a problem, and that was sixteen hours of our lives we're not getting back."

Dean almost asks for elaboration and then realizes, actually, he just doesn't want to know, ever. "So she--doesn't like people in there?"

"She's got all the keys and can remember every single thing in inventory, where it is, and how much," Alonzo says. "Or fakes it so well you can't tell the difference."

He thinks about dropping it, but they gotta know the same thing he does. "Any idea how much food we have left?" It's not that he's conversant with the supply needs of a town running at something like two hundred times capacity (why is he thinking that; it's twenty thousand, always), but he's familiar with Chitaqua now and can extrapolate. Maybe some refugees brought food with them, they got supplies from the other towns, and they were just past harvest and going into winter, but they're not in plausible territory anymore.

And yet, that's two bowls of very plausible beans and rice right there. "Thanks," he tells Brenda, looking between them and noting how they're not answering and focuses on Alonzo, who is both a resident and doesn't live in Chitaqua and therefore the weakest in the kitchen herd. "Come on, I get it, Ichabod doesn't want to say they're wiping themselves out, but inventory's gotta be close to empty. At least food inventory."

Alonzo and Brenda exchange a complicated look (it's early, okay), and then Brenda nods and suddenly says, "Let me get you a carafe, there's one--in the pantry."

Alonzo sighs, adding the finished tortillas to the massive stack and taking four more rolled out circles of dough and placing them on the pan. "No one's seen inventory except Lanak, I don't think. Except maybe Alison, since that's part of her daily tour of town."

Yes, Alison's daily marathon of mayorness, during which Chitaqua's teams have discovered they're amateurs when it comes to tracking skills. Sure, the supernatural can be tough and everything, but Alison is a goddamn education; she either ambles along at something not unlike a slow-motion walk or hits light speed when something catches her interest (what, who knows? Could be anything). If there's a door you didn't see, she walks through it; if there's a crowd, she's already inside it; if there are no stairs, he suspects they appear when her watchers stupidly blink so she can climb up and/or down them. Worse--and both Christina and Sean confirmed he didn't imagine it--she somehow picked up some mayor-version of Cas's angel of the Lord voice that pretty much everyone (including Dean, fuck his life) is helpless against when she drags it out and throws it at you like a goddamn soul-seeking missile.

Alison's grueling daily march through town, checking on everyone, listening to complaints, appearing not just at the five big population center for refugees but as many of the other buildings as she can, with a smile that must take fucking superglue or something to keep in place because muscles just weren't meant to be in that shape for that long...he gets why she does it, even if Sean and Christina didn't. 

They know her name and her face because she's there every goddamn day, shares with Claudia listening to the complaints and problems that the volunteers or their supervisors couldn't handle, speaks to as many as she can in the time allotted to each of her stops, and promises to see them again tomorrow. It's not just that it's her town that they're in; she wants everyone that as long as they're here, they're her people, too, as much as the residents. Make the town a little less strange, what happened to them a little less terrifying, make them feel a little less helpless: Alison may not be a people person, but she fucking _nails_ being good at _being_ people.

Dean pauses, reviewing what Alonzo just said. He'd normally assume 'no one' means 'people who aren't authorized' or something, but Alonzo's expression implies he's being literal. "No one?"

"She said theft and desperate people," Alonzo explains. "Which makes sense, she's sleeping in there--"

"She's sleeping," Dean interrupts, "in food inventory?"

"In one of the warehouses, yeah," he agrees. "Dean, I know it sounds weird but--Lanak's really into no one messing with her organization. The salt beef thing...."

"But the bundles, she's doing it all herself?" Alonzo nods, and Dean think of not even fucking five feet tall Lanak hauling around slabs of meat and bags of rice and just...can't. "And she can't ask for help because...she doesn't want anyone in the warehouses, got it."

"If it helps," Alonzo offers, "we had a lot of food from the party, and the other towns and the Alliance sent a lot. I helped unload the trucks. And I'm pretty sure she's got some helpers, I heard her talking to them yesterday when I did pick-up."

Brenda returns triumphantly with a carafe and fills it with coffee while Alonzo (after flipping the tortillas) gets a tray, and Dean sets aside the mystery of the food for later. He's got _eating_ food to do.

* * *

Cas emerges from his blanket mountain slowly and with vague hostility (usual) which melts into longing when Dean wisely fixes him a cup of coffee and hands it over. Second cup, it's safe to transition to eating, and sitting cross-legged on the bed across from Cas, Dean goes through the messages while Cas scans the reports. 

Dean doesn't wonder when he became a person who read official messages in bed over breakfast with his boyfriend while said boyfriend reads reports of their very active yesterday. He's that person now, what can you do? 

Between bites, Dean share the relevant info: general updates from Alison, Claudia, Tony, and Teresa and Manuel on the state of things and where they may be needed; still working on the geas thing; the checkpoints checked in this morning, and due to Cas taking care of the Hellhound and Croat problem with 'total annihilation' they'll be back by noon.

Cas (who cleaned his plate) has just set the tray on the end of the bed on the way to the shower when Dean hits the last one and is glad he already finished eating.

Cas," he says, keeping his voice steady. "They're--uh, doing the burn at dusk. She wants to know about Andy."

Cas comes back to the bed, taking the note from Dean and reading on a vague glance before saying, "I'll speak to Sarah to discover Kat's wishes, but I'm fairly certain she'll say no."

And he could overrule her, yeah. "Tell Sarah to try and convince her," he decides reluctantly. "Whatever Kat says, we'll let stand. Can you get the answer to Alison by noon?"

"I will," he says folding the paper absently into halves, then quarters, then eighths before abruptly stating. "I'm going to go visit Sudha this morning."

Right, that's today: after yesterday, a god being born upon the earth in mortal form almost seems kind of quaint. "Yeah, almost forgot."

"It occurs to me...." He makes a face. "Vera reminded me that if I wish to be present, it is incumbent on me to speak to Sudha at a time shes' not in active labor."

"Yeah," Dean says incredulously, leaving _holy shit you left that until now?_ unspoken but really goddamn obvious. "And by the way, how _are_ you gonna do that without...you know, telling her why? Assuming she doesn't know, and I gotta ask this--why wouldn't she know if she had to give consent?"

"I can think of several reasons that, if I were a barren woman who with divine intervention was to bear my first child, I might prefer to forget for a time," Cas answers. "Pregnancy is stressful in ideal conditions which this is not. Just as importantly, I would be deeply surprised if the god in question didn't at least mention there might be reasons its identity should remain unknown, and the best way to keep a secret like that is not to even know you know it."

Okay, that's fair.

Then Cas says, "It's not as if it matters."

"What?" He's never--even once--thought the birth of a god in mortal form could ever _not_ matter. "Just-- _what_?"

"It's a baby," Cas says, like Dean missed biology and an entire life on earth or something and wasn't aware what pregnancy is supposed to accomplish. "Unless the child in question is destined to usher in a new era for humankind--let's just say it's not for many reasons--it's going to be simply another child. One who perhaps will be able to access some part of their divine powers--"

"Oh God, I didn't even think of that," Dean says in horror. "We got a baby with _superpowers_?"

Cas stares at him. "I'm tempted to let you keep thinking that, but no. At least, not until puberty at least, and in this town...." He trails off, and Dean thinks of the current residents: psychic, witch(es), visiting fallen angel, and that doesn't even include the pre-kindergarten set of future witches of the infected zone and fuck knows what else in the daycare. "He or she might feel left out otherwise. But in any case, the child will simply be Sudha and Rabin's offspring. I can't possibly speculate with any certainty on Sudha's mind, but it being a former god is probably the least important thing to her."

Actually, he gets that.

"So if you aren't going to tell her why you want to be there," Dean says, returning to the much more fascinating (and goddamn hilarious) subject, "what are you going to tell her when she asks why you want to be there?"

Cas slumps. "I have no idea."

Dean thinks about his next question. "Look--why do you want to be there? I mean, what can you do if...?" The god's already dead (two years ago?) or can't get back or simply doesn't show up.

"I don't know that either, other than support Vera," he admits, and Dean nods agreement, pretending he doesn't notice Cas's not exactly subtle relief. "Unless there's something else..."

"Go shower," Dean says, watching Cas leave (awesome view) before stacking up the messages and going to see what clothes he has in 'semi-clean or better'.

* * *

After seeing Cas off, saying hi to Joelle, and making an appearance in the mess to pointedly not mock anyone with hangovers, Dean settles in the Situation Room with Vicky and Derek in attendance. He honestly has no idea why they're here (and from the way they were working when he came in, have been since dawn), but Vicky looks really into whatever she's doing on the laptop and Derek the boxes, so he nods at them (they nod back) and settles in to realize he needs more coffee.

"Get me some?" Vicky asks without looking up while Derek seconds (and looks up, he gets points for that). "Thanks, Dean!"

"You got it," he says without irony (they don't notice), and grabs his cup, walking out the door and into--should have seen this coming--the goddamn giant white room.

For form's sake, he mutters, "What is with this building?" before finding a convenient place for his coffee cup. Turning around, he surveys to see if there's anything new.

Giant mosaic floor, check; endless white walls, check; columns as far as the eye can see, check; it's impressive, don't get him wrong, but not like he hasn't seen it all before. Looking up, he takes in the blue-painted ceiling miles away, sprinkled with countless tiny lights like stars, and wonders if those are actual constellations he should recognize.

He has just enough time to wonder which wall will win the picture lottery when color starts winding through the one on his right, seeping through the stone as if housed within and waiting for him to show up. Walking over, Dean settles in to watch; sure, he's seen it before, but honestly, he's seeing a theme here.

Demeter, dry-eyed and expressionless, hood thrown back, stands atop Mount Olympus and surveys the end of winter, arms limp at her sides but the long fingers are spread wide, tips slowly turning black; Clytemnestra seduces her lover in her husband's bed, but her gaze is fixed on an axe leaning against the far wall; Hecuba, in the dress of a common servant, prostrates herself before the King of Thrace and court, but her eyes are fixed on his two sons; Medea sits at the hearth in the home she once shared with Jason, patiently sewing an elaborate robe set with jewels, at her feet a coronet of gold, while the pot on the hearth exudes a noxious green mist.

The fifth picture opens on a well-paved country road and a mule cart with four mules, the Janiculum, one of the seven hills of Rome, just coming into view. Within, Sappho frowns at something in her lap, while beside her Cornelia exchanges amused glances with Publius, who sits across from them with his back to the driver.

"Latin and Greek, I understand, _domina_ ," Sappho says, raising the scroll from her lap to glare more closely at the endless columns. "Somewhat, at least. But this is both and neither one."

"It's rhetoric," Publius says, sprawled in comfort and grinning at her as the mule cart bumps merrily along the road.

"I understand each and every word of this, _domine_ ," Sappho persists, scowling. "At least, _domina_ says it is thus."

"Careful," Cornelia says from beside her, exchanging a grin with Publius. "It's not supposed to make sense. Not yet, anyway."

Sappho looks up with an attempt at being intimidated; she's bad at it. "Forgive me, _domina_. Perhaps I should ask: why do I need to learn this which makes no sense?"

"An excellent example of the use of rhetoric," Publius says seriously. "Why does Sappho need learn rhetoric and the first principles of oratory?"

Sappho glares between them. "That is not--according to this--a rhetorical question, for it advances no argument nor makes a point obvious to one and all, and also does indeed require an answer." Almost immediately, she closes her eyes, and Cornelia bites her lip. " _Domine_. If it be your pleasure to answer."

"It seems you understand very well," Cornelia observes neutrally while Publius hides his grin by staring hard at the roof. "You tell me, Sappho, why I instruct you in these skills?"

Sappho lets the scroll close and straightens, and Dean notes she looks a lot better with a dress that fits and a little meat on her bones, thick black hair long enough for it to be bound in a neat roll at the back of her neck. "For my mistress's pleasure, I assume. She grows bored with the obsequious attentions of Rome's greatest families and the Senate's intractability and requires entertainment. My mistress's will is my life."

"Your recitation of Homer was sublime last night, and your accent impeccable," Cornelia agrees. "I was indeed entertained."

Sappho looks between the serious faces suspiciously.

"You also proved you've mastered the first principles of oratory," Cornelia continues. "Acquire your audience's attention and hold it at your pleasure. Now the real work begins: how to use it to forward your purposes, whatever those might be."

"I don't know what that means, _domina_ ," Sappho says seriously, deliberately adopting the Greek accent she'd had when she entered Cornelia's household, which makes Cornelia's mouth twitch despite the stern expression. "And you will not tell me."

"When you're ready to hear the answer, you won't need to ask the question," Cornelia answers mock-severely before she smiles. "I commend you in your studies, Sappho. As quick as Sempronia, and she was only quicker than Tiberius and Gaius by a hair. Claudia, poor child, always struggled, and Licinia...." She sighs indulgently. "Neither of their families valued education as they should. The habit wasn't set early, and it's difficult to acquire that later. I have no complaints, however; they are in all ways the ideal daughters-in-law."

"Because they are patrician on both sides," Sappho says confidently, and Dean guesses she's quoting someone. "And of good family with rich dowries and excellent connections to Rome's most illustrious families."

Cornelia wrinkles her nose. "In many families, yes, that would a consideration, and for some, that would be required. The first duty of a Roman family is to increase their wealth, raise their status, and give lustre to their name. Children as much as their parents are servants of their family; ideally, their marriages should bring to the family what it cannot acquire otherwise to achieve those goals." She gives Publius a playful look and he rolls his eyes. Turning to Sappho she continues. "My sons were of ancient plebian ancestry, however, and through me are descended from the patrician Cornelii and Aemilii; their lineage was illustrious enough without need for dressing."

Publius looks at her sardonically. "And you of course never lusted for the acquisition of a Julia or perhaps a Fabia or Valeria--"

"A Julia and or a Valeria, I would have objected not at all, should my sons find them pleasing to take as wives," Cornelia states and by her expression, Dean is pretty sure Publius nailed it. "A Fabia, no: I respect ancestry as any Roman should, but you cannot deny they are peculiar and grow more peculiar as the generations pass."

"You're thinking of Eburnus," Publius says, and Cornelia nods, looking--uncomfortable? "He was adopted from the Servilii--"

"Not better," Cornelia states with a delicate shudder before turning to Sappho. "In your life, you will meet many kinds of people, good and bad and in-between, but every so often you will come across one and feel--as if your skin is trying to crawl away and cares not if you go with it."

Publius nods, looking thoughtful. "That would be it, yes."

"Wisely, I agreed with my skin, excused myself, and walked quickly away," Cornelia continues. "To return to a less unsettling topic, my sons had no need of a wife of high birth to give their names lustre or great wealth to fill their purse. Their father and I agreed to allow them to select for themselves wives that would suit them and their ambitions. Claudia and Licinia's families brought us important political alliances that forwarded my sons' purposes, but any of a dozen families could have done so; their persons pleased my sons and so they married them. They are sweet-natured, kind, can both play and sing, have Latin and Greek--"

"And their beauty of no importance at all," Publius tells the ceiling of the cart. "We speak not of it, for what influence would it have on a young man?"

"Ye gods, do those families breed and very well," Cornelia mutters, shaking her head. "But what choice did those children have, coming from such stables? Licinia surpasses all, however: truly a face to launch a thousand ships. If my son must be seduced by something as ephemeral as beauty, he did choose the best Rome had to offer."

"And no vanity to be found," Publius adds, sounding baffled. "Once, when Gaius sent me to deliver a message to you in Misenum, I chanced upon her and Claudia playing a game in the peristyle garden and she fell into the fountain. She was excessively muddy already and the water helped not at all. She saw me and merely burst into laughter, tied her hair back with a convenient stick--a stick, Cornelia, it was on the ground, I saw it--and she continued their game with mud on the tip of her nose. Far worse, it impaired her beauty not at all." 

Cornelia's mouth trembles despite the smile. "Gaius was always a serious child, and Tiberius's death seemed to steal all that remained of his joy. As a good son does, he brought Licinia to meet me before their betrothal was formalized, and...he was so different, I almost didn't recognize him. She brought him joy for all their time together, and Claudia and Sempronia as well; my household is brighter for her presence." She takes a quick breath, expression smoothing. "I won't ask what they played when you saw them; both are overly fond of children's games," she adds with a sigh. "We bear what we must."

He tilts his head. "From what I heard, their number was often greater than two." Cornelia's eyes narrow. "Is it true, it took two hours for Cardixa and your maids to remove the sticks, leaves--and most inexplicably of all, wreathes of wilted flowers--from your hair?"

"I know not of what you speak nor what ridiculous rumors you have heard, but I put such games away in girlhood--"

"Tiberius and Gaius used to tell of how Cornelia Africana had no sense of direction when blindfolded and would fall into every fountain, pool, or puddle that may be within her lack of line of sight," Publius interrupts airily, and Cornelia's eyes widen. "They would try to catch you, of course, but what you lacked in differentiating north from east and left from right you would make up for in speed. Also, they were quite small--their twenties and early thirties, from what I heard? Perhaps not so small as that."

"I did _not_ \--"

"Or three years ago, when Licinia finally quickened," Publius continues with relish, "and a solemn and dignified family celebration degenerated into a housewide game of hide and seek."

"That," Cornelia states, "is a falsehood."

"Lia," Publius says patiently, "I was the one who found you in the kitchens attempting without success to fit yourself inside a very small cupboard."

Cornelia looks struck. "So you did. My apologies: I need to better judge when and to whom I tell my lies. How did you find me? I neglected to ask."

"You are one of the tallest women in Rome--no fault to your father, the Aemilii always grow their women large indeed--and yet," he looks at Sappho in despair, "she tries to fit in a cupboard dedicated to spices."

"I fit well," Cornelia protests as Sappho grins widely. "One foot, perhaps--"

"I tripped over it."

Sappho looks between them, face red with the effort not to laugh.

"I have always been a friend of exercise," Cornelia says with dignity. "A healthy body is necessary for a healthy mind." She sighs. "I was too fond of games as a child, it is true, and at best an average student. Forever wishing to go outdoors and explore the farms on our estate; I wonder my mother did not keep me at my books."

Publius puts on a constipated look, and Cornelia raises an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"Nothing at all," he answers, careful to keep his expression as he share a look with Sappho. "You are indeed average in all ways."

"Have I not said so?" Cornelia gives them a repressive frown before suddenly smiling out one of the hide-covered windows, outside which an eager family waits by the road near what looks like an inn. "Stop here," she calls to the driver. "I know them."

As the mule cart comes to a halt, Publius peers out at them as Cornelia eagerly alights. "Wait for me," she tells Sappho, a small purse in one hand. "I'll be but a moment."

Sappho slides down the seat to peer out the window with Publius. The husband steps forward eagerly as Cornelia joins them; from their simple clothes, Dean guesses they're farmers or something, though they seem to be doing well if the woman's earrings are any indication (thanks, jewelry store job, he notices that kind of thing now. Jesus). The man pushes forward a small boy, who grins up at Cornelia with a new space between his teeth, and careless of her skirts, she crouches, expression interested as he tells her--no idea.

" _Domine_ , who are they?" Sappho asks blankly. "How does she know them? Surely they do not attend the interminable dinner parties we all enjoy so much every night? If they are pretending to be farmers to escape those, I blame them not."

"For the first, no idea at all," Publius answers, lifting the hide more and shaking his head. "For the second--if you ask her, she can tell you their names, ages, occupation, residence, ancestry, and choice of crops per season. I would speculate how they met could have been anything, anything at all, and she could tell you that as well: date, time, weather, and what she had for her last meal beforehand." He puts on a long-suffering expression. "You didn't ask how they knew she would be here today and wonder if perhaps they are people that simply spend their days lingering on the side of the road in hopes she will appear? Possible, but no: child, the wonder isn't a family she knows happens to be here, but that there are not dozens spilling out of the woods who for no reason at all knew she would drive by this day."

Sappho blinks at him slowly. "You speak truly?"

"I forget," he says. "Were you not in the Forum that day with her and go with her now when she leaves the house?"

"This is true," Sappho says in surprise. "I assumed it some peculiarity of Romans, who seem to appear as if summoned in great numbers whenever she appears on the streets. Any street. Or temple, shop, or beneath our loggia when she feels like taking air."

"It's always been so," Publius says, nodding. "Where Cornelia Africana is, so the world will be as well."

"And she is _average_ for a Roman noblewoman?"

"Her tutors must have forgotten to teach her the meaning of that word in the many languages she learned in girlhood, and she certainly never picked it up in any of the others," Publius says dryly. "No, not at all. I suppose I can't fault Africanus or her mother; he was the best general Rome ever produced and a brilliant scholar in his own right, and married an Aemilia, an excellent woman I'm sure, but whose exceedingly high birth, sense of fashion, and air of distinction occupied much of her time and thought. Still, when one's five year old--with a lisp, having lost two teeth--argues a Greek philosopher into the ground in one's _tabilium_ , one would think Africanus would have wondered what it was he and Aemilia possessed in their second daughter."

Cornelia cups the child's cheek, leaning to give him a kiss, and rises to her feet as another man appears, well-dressed in a Greek _chlamys_ , hand coming to rest on the boy's shoulder. Opening the purse, Cornelia gives part of the contents to him, nodding at whatever he says interspersed with smiling down at the boy, reaching to ruffle his hair.

"Pedagogue, yes," Publius says with gloomy satisfaction. "I should have guessed: no escape now, that child will be educated and set on the path of greatness will he, nil he. I should discover his _gens_ before we leave: when he runs for consul, he'll certainly get my vote." Cornelia takes the baby from the woman, looking down at it with a soft smile before saying something to the mother, who nods adamantly. "That," Publius says with certainty, "is the first daughter of the house, and Cornelia is reminding its mother that daughters must be educated with the sons, for they should be partners with their men in all things, and it is never known if they will lose father and husband too soon and must be able to read business correspondence and do accounts and such and be protected from encroaching in-laws who might try to steal their dowry."

"Does that happen often?" Sappho asks, startled. "I thought in Rome...Cornelia told me women own property in their own right and it cannot be taken by law."

"She's correct," Publius says quietly, looking at her. "But if they do not know the law--or cannot read their marriage contracts--how would they know their rights? It's a father's and brother's duty to protect the interests of their women, but if they don't--or are deceased--who will speak for them?" He snorts contemptuously. "Young girls newly married are tempted by sweet words from less than honorable men to sign what they do not understand and find their dowry gone and themselves without recourse if divorced or widowed. A good husband, a good father by marriage would insist her dowry be protected and inheritable only by their children--should they be so fortunate as to have any--and assure their will leaves her well-supported on the occasion of one or both their deaths. And many do, do not mistake me, but Roman men are still men, good and bad. We may think the best of our fellow man, Sappho, but in Rome, we think the best of them and enforce it with a legally binding contract into perpetuity."

Cornelia hands the child back and gives the mother some money from her purse. With a fond smile at the child, she takes her leave of them, returning to the cart with a wide smile on her face, years shed so suddenly she almost seems a girl.

"A fine daughter," Cornelia says approvingly as the cart continues, and Publius and Sappho share a glance. "The son makes excellent progress, but that's no surprise; the child's grandfather was my father's body servant and was very quick indeed. He was freed in my father's will, of course, and entered my husband's service as a freedman on my marriage. For his good work, we paid to have him placed in a rural tribe instead of one of the urban ones so his vote would count. Well educated men who think are needed by Rome. Would that we do away entirely with the bias that places freedman in the four urban tribes; no matter the citizenship of their birth, they are Roman now." Cornelia makes a face. "Ridiculous."

"Cornelians, then," Publius says, and Cornelia nods.

"Of course. My father freed him in his will and thus, he was entitled to our _gens_ : Publius Cornelius Artabanus." The cart comes to an abrupt stop, and her expression changes, color draining away. "I'll only be a moment," she says quietly. "Please await me here. I want to see how the temple is progressing; it should be complete very soon."

It's an order, quietly spoken but unmistakable, and beside him, Dean feels his usual companion's presence. "Where's she going? What temple?"

She swallows as Cornelia climbs out, eyes fixed on something he can't quite see. "The one she's building in Gaius's honor in the Grove of the Furies."

Dean watches Cornelia start toward the grove then the scene abruptly vanishes just as she passes the first tree. It's not that he wanted to watch Cornelia go look at where her son died, but.... "Did you do that?"

"No," she says with a frown. "I didn't."

Dean vaguely remembers Cas telling him about angels having privileges in holy places. "Is it because it's--sacred or something? Furies wouldn't like it?" From what he knows about Furies, not the kind you want to piss off, ever.

"And no mortal eyes may behold?" she asks. "No, nothing like that, and that wouldn't count here, anyway."

Dean thinks vaguely about leaving, but-- "So we wait?"

"I suppose," she answers, sounding as bewildered as he is. "As we have time, I've been curious about--you don't have to answer, of course. Freely asked, freely given."

"Help if I knew the question," he points out.

She makes a face. "Tell me about now? Anything," she clarifies at his blank look. "I can't see much--still not omnipotent--but from what little I have seen, it's...different."

Well yeah; about two thousand years difference, give or take. "I can do that," he agrees, though that means he has figure out where to start.

Thank God, she takes pity on him and says, "Your army. Militia, I mean." 

Or, this is exactly what she wanted to ask all along and was trying to ease into it. "Okay," he says, and tries to decide where to start. "So you know what a hunter is?"

She tilts her head. "Your militia hunts for meat?"

"Yeah, no," he says, though technically, they do that, too. "We'll start there."

* * *

Castiel's entry into Ichabod's working hospital is heralded by a small mass of humanity barreling directly into his legs. Looking down, he sees two year old Sera looking up at him, flyaway black hair escaping a braid and grinning to reveal all six and a half of her teeth.

"Good morning," he says politely. She giggles before lifting both arms in the imperative command known as 'pick me up immediately' (Lily and Dee were very educational on this).

Crouching, Castiel obeys, settling her warm weight in his arms as she relates absolutely nothing he can understanding in a mixture of English and Cantonese.

"Sera!" Anyi says, appearing from a nearby hallway, carrying a faded pink child-sized coat and stocking cap and looking frazzled. Her worried expression changes to relieved when she sees Sera. "Cas, hey, morning. She got away from me, sorry."

"Not a problem at all," he says, quickly returning his attention to Sera when tiny wet fingers land on his cheek, which Lily taught him is the command 'look at me or I'll scream at a decibel that only dogs, whales, and supermassive black holes can achieve'. It's extraordinarily effective. "Yes," he tells her (the word 'coat' was in there, he thinks). "I have one as well."

Sera nods, satisfied, and drops her head onto his shoulder with a very loud, wet sniffle.

"Cold," Anyi tells him, brown eyes softening as she pushes back a strand of her daughter's hair. "It's going around the daycare. Again."

"How is she adjusting?" he asks when a tiny arm tighten like a vise when he thinks about returning her to her mother. From what he understands, human toddlers are acutely sensitive to anything that might contravene their will, including thought.

Anyi grins. "Great. And how are you doing?" she asks, eyes darting to his right forearm as if she can see the bandage beneath. 

"It's fine," he says, pausing for Sera to sneeze wetly and Anyi to make a horrified face. "Don't concern yourself; body fluids of are no concern to me."

She cocks her head. "Angel thing?"

"Chitaqua thing," he admits, helping her unwind the (iron-like) arms wrapped around his neck as Any murmurs to her in Cantonese and Sera protesting in the same language with added toddler (a language of its own). With a look of tragic betrayal (at him), she sneezes pointedly, sticks her thumb in her mouth, and settles against Anyi's shoulder to assure he can still see her displeasure in case he forgets. "When did you start teaching her Cantonese?"

"When I was provisionally approved a couple of weeks ago," she says, hefting Sera against her hip. "Glenn helped me make her some simple picture books. Shuo's the only other native speaker here, so it's kind of nice to have someone else to talk to."

"She's a quick learner," he says; children at this age generally are, reaching out to touch Sera's cheek in what he hopes she correctly interprets as a peace offering. She seems to debate it--several long, noisy sucks--before bursting into wet giggles followed by another enthusiastic sneeze. "I apologize," he says, aware of Anyi's odd smile. "I don't mean to detain you."

"It's cool," she says, looking at him thoughtfully. "Didn't realize you were a kid person."

Dog person, cat person, gun person, knife person: he thinks he can extrapolate. "I didn't realize I was," he confesses as Sera grabs his finger, eyes huge and liquid as she urges it toward her tooth filled mouth, rather like a Venus flytrap exuding a pleasing scent before consuming you. "Lily already tried that," he tells her firmly before she can demonstrate her mastication skills, pulling back and ignoring her heartbreak with difficulty. "Are you going on duty now?"

"After we have breakfast and I drop her off in the official Cold Room at the daycare," she says. "Speaking of, I better run. Sera, say bye-bye?"

Sera considers it before lifting her hand in the single most condescending gesture he's ever seen by anyone below the age of reason.

"Have a good day," he tells them both, turning to watch as Anyi pauses at a nearby chair to wrestle the child into her coat and hat before going out the door and into the early morning chill. 

Looking around the lobby, he notes the number of children with their parents--most Ichabod, some Alliance, some he assumes are from the refugees--and firmly tamps down the flare of anger; so many here came with their children, dependent on strangers to feed and house them and see to their medical needs. If the migration was justified in itself, nothing can excuse the a geas so badly designed as this one; it's only luck that so far, no children have been casualties.

"Cas?" a familiar voice asks, and Castiel sees Vera at the open door of the ER with four charts. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question," he answers, doing the math on how much she slept last night very obviously. She make a face. "How long have you been on duty?"

"Half an hour before dawn, only for another thirty minutes, and just my existing patients," she says, transparently pretending she's not being very defensive. "Pneumonia's responding, everyone's healing well, and my three Diabetes Type II are stable and doing great." Then, "Oh, forgot about that. Come on."

Following her across the ER, they end up in yet another warren-like room (these buildings are overly fond of calling glorified closets 'room's, but it does benefit from a window. Retrieving a file from a locked drawer of one of the many utterly identical cabinets stuffed into all available space, she scans down it, mouth tightening. 

"No change," she says, handing it to him to look over. She taught him to read Dean's charts, and Alicia furthered his education with his own, so it's fairly easy to interpret both the medical terminology as well as the style of Vera's notes. "I will say this; she's doing great, baby's doing great, no problems except four days in first stage labor without any progress." She leans against an overcrowded desk where Castiel guesses Dolores avoids doing paperwork, as it has no chair. "Today?"

"Loosely, in the next twenty-four hours," he answers. "This isn't an exact science--or any science really, at least yet. Keep her under constant supervision starting at midnight if it hasn't begun yet."

"I probably should have asked this before," she says, crossing her arms. "But is the labor going to be--normal? Or put it another way; is it going to be 'water breaking wow baby' or is it following the general stages of labor?"

"The latter," he says reassuringly, closing the folder and handing it back. "It should follow whatever qualifies as average. Would you like me to wait with you this evening after the fire, or...?"

"Yeah, no." She shakes her head firmly. "Rule of thumb: hovering makes people nervous, and the only person who can hover over her right now and not do that is Rabin. You're one street away and pretty fast; I think you'll be okay."

"Who has she asked to be present at the birth?"

Vera thinks. "Alison, Neeraja, Deepika, Mercedes--on a guess, she's going to be using this as a preview of coming events--Suma, and Njoya." She hesitates, biting her lip. "She also asked Cathy."

Her newborn daughter Del was one of those killed at the daycare during the attack on Ichabod. "I don't know enough to even form an opinion," he admits.

"Cultivate that," Vera advises him. "It's a rare and very valuable trait. I don't know either, to be honest. Alicia thought it was a good idea, though, if that helps. Give her something to focus on outside herself and not get lost in her own head, and yes, that's a quote."

Castiel remembers her reaction to seeing Cathy on New Year's Eve. "They're friends?"

"I guess. They've been meeting for a meal every day since we got here, whenever they're both off duty," Vera answers with a shrug. "Dolores told me Alicia was really helpful when she was here after the attack." She takes a deep breath, meeting Castiel's eyes. "There's no records on who works isolation, it's everyone and no one, you know?"

He nods.

"When--when Dolores came by about Andy, Alicia said--"

"She'd done it before," he finishes for her. "Evelyn mentioned it. So she worked isolation?"

"No one will confirm or deny it, obviously, and I haven't talked to Alicia, but...yeah, I'm pretty sure that's what she was talking about. And from the way Dolores reacted when I implied I might want to ask, I'm going to guess it was kids. For obvious reasons, that area is under guard, back stairs, go in and out fully suited, and no one--and I do mean no one--knows who does it other than Dolores, who approves them." She shifts uncomfortably. "Cas, it's not a popular job, and I'm going to tell you now, from what I heard around here, I'm not sure anyone living in Ichabod was in any condition to take care of it after the attack."

He didn't think of that; then again, he didn't know very much about children then. Vera gives him a searching look. "If she was the only one...she never talked about it?"

"Not to her team," he answers evasively, thinking of Kyle with even less affection than before; he didn't realize that was possible. Vera's expression tells him she was fully regaled with the unsettling saga of Alicia and Kyle when she returned from Alpha, and now has some very strong opinions on the subject as well. "Let me speak to Dean. I'm not sure--about anything related to that. In any case, I'd rather not disturb what little peace she and her team have now."

"She'll want to go back on duty ASAP," Vera says, which doesn't surprise him at all. "And no medical reason not to, in case you were hopeful. Ankle will be fine with a brace, so she's clear for wall duty or anything not requiring a lot of running or heavy lifting. I'll be honest; when she reports for duty, just nod and assign them something to do."

"I'll have Victoria revise the patrol schedule," he agrees distractedly. "Thank you for your help. I should go speak to Sudha now, I suppose.."

Vera's troubled expression mutates into unmistakable malice. "Decided how to ask yet?"

"No," he says in resignation. "I'll think on the way. Now where is her room again?"

* * *

"So that is why an Egyptian physician sees to the Lady Licinia today?" Sappho says in surprise.

"Priest," Publius corrects her, and Dean can see from Cornelia's more relaxed expression they've been doing their damndest to distract her. "High priest, if I'm not mistaken."

"You are mistaken," Cornelia answers with a frown while Publius grins back, unrepentant. "He is a priest-physician of the priestly caste in Egypt, trained in Memphis and assigned to Egypt's Ambassador during their stay in Rome. And I wish you would not fill Sappho's ears with ancient history that cannot possibly be of interest."

"The King of Egypt sued for your hand in marriage, _domina_ ," Sappho says incredulously, tacking on the _domina_ as an afterthought. "That cannot possibly lack interest no matter the point in time in which it happened."

Cornelia sighs. "He was but a boy--"

"He was almost thirty," Publius interjects blandly. "Firm of limb, full of flesh--though not so much as he is now, if his nickname is to be believed--and not unattractive. Quite popular among our young girls, who sighed every time he displayed himself upon the streets."

Cornelia's eyes narrow. "He wasn't serious--"

"He pursued you at any and every opportunity not limited to appearing on whatever street you may have occupied, complete with entourage: subtle, he was not," Publius interrupts. "He sued for your hand more assiduously than he bleated to the Senate to give him his crown!"

Cornelia makes a face. "He was probably bored--"

"He brought you an entire collection of the works of Praxiteles to lay at your feet," Publius answers. "Four crowns, a chest of jewelry--"

"I don't wear jewelry," Cornelia interrupts, her expression reflecting even she questions the relevance. "And they were--artistic representations of crowns, not real ones. Alexandria is Hellenistic: they wear the white ribbon diadem to denote their sovereignty unless they are also Pharaoh, and then wear the double crown while in Egypt proper. Which I remind you, Ptolemy was not."

"I stand corrected," Publius concedes solemnly, eyes bright. "A tutor to instruct you in Hieratic and Demotic Egyptian, copies of their great works when you expressed interest--"

"That," Cornelia says positively, "was very welcome indeed. Their hieroglyphs are fascinating. In fact, I recently received an obscure work that was apparently written by a young Athenian scholar who seemed to be fluent in both Demotic _and_ Hieratic. I must say, I'm looking forward to when I have the leisure to review it--"

"And of course, offering to have you raised to Pharaoh of Egypt, reincarnation of Isis and god on earth," Publius finishes triumphantly, and Cornelia slumps back into her seat, looking pained.

"He was going to make you a _god_?" Sappho exclaims, losing the _domina_ entirely, which he can't blame her, because _what_?

"He couldn't make me a god--or Pharaoh," Cornelia scoffs. "Only Egypt's priesthood could do so."

"A _god_?" Sappho says helplessly. "Egypt's priesthood can make one a _god_?"

"They can. That would be why he offered a letter from the high priest," Publius says in satisfaction. "Years of study, something something, and she'd be anointed on the very banks of the Nile which would Inundate in her honor. So, a week after you entered Memphis, provided you slept regularly--which is of doubt--you'd be anointed Pharaoh, graced with the double crown, and be worshipped by all of Egypt. And you'd also be Queen of Alexandria, of course, famous for its library." He notes Cornelia's conflicted expression in satisfaction. "Greatest in the world. It could have been yours, think on that."

"A _god_ ," Sappho repeats blankly. "On earth."

"They say every book ever published is within its walls," Cornelia murmurs wistfully. " _Margites_ may be there, who's to say? The poet Sappho's lost epics and those of her students, even the works of the great empires of the East are said to be within. Imagine having access to the Librarian's _private library_." She sighs, shaking her head. "Not even a god would be permitted that. I would have tried, however."

"God," Sappho says clearly. "On. Earth. _Domina_."

"And controlling the Nile on a whim," Publius agrees, and Cornelia rolls her eyes. "Thus bringing fertility to all Egypt."

"Why did you refuse?" Sappho asks. "To be god on earth and marry a king? And be god on earth? _Domina_."

Cornelia sighs, slumping back in her seat. "I have no desire to be a god, for one. For another--I have a husband."

"But he is dead," Sappho says and looks sorry she said it, but Cornelia's expression doesn't change. "Roman women marry more than once--consecutively, not concurrently, of course--so why not you?"

Cornelia is quiet for a long moment, eyes thoughtful; even Publius is silent, watching her carefully.

"My father arranged my betrothal before he died," she answers slowly. "Like my sister, he would not allow marriage before the proper age of eighteen and my betrothal contract stated it clearly. He called me to his _tabilium_ and gave me a list of suitors he deemed suitable for my hand and asked me to remove those I found objectionable; I removed twelve, which he said helped not at all, as the list was long and greater than one page." She shakes her head when Sappho looks impressed. "I am a Cornelia, daughter of Africanus, and patrician on both sides from ancient families who've served Rome since she began, and my dowry was rich; every man of suitable age--as in, not dead, married or not--sued for my hand. Most had never seen me, and even fewer could have picked me from a crowd. Nor was I ever pretty, so memorable I was not."

The words are spoken with amusement, not pain, but Sappho frowns, eyes flickering to Publius before fixing on Cornelia again. "Did your father see you married?"

"No, I was seven when he died." Sappho looks at Publius helplessly while Dean tries to imagine being seven and given a list of potential husbands to check out. And know what that _meant_ , much less do it. "Gracchus was far older than I, of course--he was forty-five at our marriage, had been praetor and consul in his time--but he told my father he saw no reason to marry to forward his path up the _cursus honorium_. Which," she adds, "he should have done even with his ancestry. Nothing helps a man so much in politics as a well-educated wife of good family and wide connections. Yet he was content to wait."

"When did you first meet?" Sappho asks softly.

"I met him on the day of our marriage, as is tradition," Cornelia answers, eyes distant. "We were permitted correspondence, of course, as is proper between a man and his betrothed wife. I wrote of my life and my studies, and he suggested appropriate tutors, which of course my mother and _paterfamilias_ acquired for me immediately. Sometimes, he would ask me questions about different policies he was working on and would send me his laws before submitting them to the Plebian Assembly or Senate so I could review them and better understand his work. He said that as we would share a life soon, he would know my mind and I his, and so I was to note what I thought about what I read and leave nothing out. If I felt it needed correction, I was to do so, and if I was wrong, it could only be to my benefit to find out why."

Publius sternly represses a smile. "He corrected you often?"

"Not past my fifteenth year," she answers carelessly and all Dean can think is she really doesn't know what 'average' means. "I told him it would be easier if I had a tutor who could teach me not just the law itself but politics both committal and senatorial. He sent one, I learned all he could teach me, and to prove my mastery, Gracchus sent me the summary of a minor--and senatorially controversial--agriculture bill to frame correctly as if it would be presented to the Senate and the People, and I was to also frame how to get it passed. Simple enough: I framed the bill so it was legally immaculate, wrote the introductory speech, the arguments that should be used and the counters to all possible opposition, and listed the two Tribunes of the Plebs that were in need of funds and would require a moderate bribe and the mistress of a senator I shall not name but held the votes of a dozen backbenchers who required a necklet of carnelian stones. It was an interesting exercise; I enjoyed it a great deal."

Sappho licks her lips. "When you finally met? Was he to your taste despite his advanced age?"

"What had age to do with it?" Cornelia asks, exchanging an amused look with Publius. "His family, education, temperament, and ethics suited me in all ways, and his mind--only our sons could surpass him. If we must be vulgar, then yes, I found him very pleasing in his person as well." She shakes herself. "I was with my women when my mother brought to my sitting room. I saw him, tall and dignified in his _toga praetexa_ , holding my bride-gift, and all I could think is he would be disappointed when he compared me to my women, all of whom were far prettier than I." She rolls her eyes at her younger self. "And then he looked right at me and smiled, and said my name--it was so strange," she says softly. "It was as if he saw no one else. Senator, praetor, general, and consul, and he tripped over the rug on his way to me and almost dropped his bride-gift." Cornelia lowers her head, but Dean can see the blush. "All marriages take work, of course, but Gracchus--it was as if I'd known him all my life, instead of merely well over half through our letters. I loved him the twenty years of our marriage, and I love him no less in death."

Sappho surreptitiously wipes her eyes, and Publius stares hard at the roof of the cart like maybe he wants to avoid that shit.

"He would not have you marry again?" Sappho asks finally.

"Of course he would," Cornelia answers. "At his death, he made that much very clear. My first marriage was not of my choice, but my second was to be my choice alone. Tradition would not bind me any farther than I allowed it; I would marry or not as I willed. His last act as my husband and _paterfamilias_ was to order me not to hesitate but become again a happy wife if I found a man that suited me."

"But you did not. _Domina_ ," Sappho adds vaguely.

"I had many suitors," she says, laughter in her voice. "I was still young, fecund with six children living, of patrician ancestry on both sides, the daughter of Africanus and relic of the Gracchi, and very, very, very rich." She give Sappho a mischievous smile. "An irresistible combination indeed. They told me I was beautiful," she snorts, startling Sappho and making Publius grin, "intelligent, educated, accomplished, cultured, and that I embodied all the virtues--half of which they made up on the spot--while thinking lustfully of the balances within my bank accounts and my numerous properties, and calculating my dowry to the last sestertius."

"Lia," Publius says in mock-horror, "you do not do them justice. I can assure you, they were just as entranced by the thought of their future progeny claiming descent from Africanus."

"Granted," she agrees with dignity, catching Sappho's eye. "Not one, however, brought me as bride-gift the law I'd written wrapped in red ribbon, on which he'd erased its formally recorded name and wrote in his own hand _lex Cornelia Africana Senatus Triumpha_. What I sent him that day, he left unchanged, and took it to the Senate, where it was recommended to the Plebian Assembly by an overwhelming majority, and they passed it without a single veto. With it were the recorded notes from the Senate meeting and during the debates of the Plebian Assembly for me to review at my leisure. It was considered an extraordinarily well-written law, apparently." She looks at her companions. "I think--though nothing is certain but death and magisterial extortion--that I shall remain a widow to the end of my days."

Sappho nods slowly. "I wish I could have known him, _domina_. Would you tell us more?"

Cornelia smiles at them. "Of course, if you're prepared to be very bored."

"I could never grow bored listening to you," Sappho answers, settling in her seat. "Whatever you chose to say."

"They were a great love story," Dean's companion says softly. "It was not always thus with marriages of those of our class, though true disasters were rare. But all knew it who looked at them."

They arrive at the house only moments later, and Sappho, once certain that Cornelia is out of earshot, asks Publius, " _Domine_ , is it like she knows not what 'average' means when she says she is not pretty?"

Publius represses a smile. "Why do you think so?"

"Do you not have eyes, _domine_?" Sappho demands. "She is of great beauty. This Gracchus was fortunate indeed in having such a wife."

Publius makes a choked sound. "My eyes are old, Sappho, but now that I think on the matter, you are correct. Gracchus said the same of her."

"I should hope he did," Sappho says, mollified. "You are wiser than those who told her otherwise. Fools. _Fellatores. Mentulas_." Publius suppresses a laugh with visible effort, face red. "My thanks, _domine_. I am pleased not to be mistaken in your good character."

"I am truly grateful to know you think well of me," Publius manages, straight-faced.

As they come in the house, Cornelia nods to the sour looking steward as she hands over her cloak, and Dean sees Sappho's eyes fix on him for a moment, thoughtful. "Your--guest," the steward says even more sourly still, adding an edge of contempt to the noun, "is waiting in the _tabilium_."

"Thank you," she says graciously. "Publius, you will stay to dinner, of course?"

"Of course," he says, pulling a face. "You save me a fortune in meals, or should; the bills from the market grow no smaller, yet my servants grow fatter. Passing strange."

"Entertain yourself as you will," she says, making a face at him. 

"I thought," he says, eyes fixing on some point on the frescoed ceiling, "that I might go to the markets and acquire a few meat pies while I wait. Pastry stuffed with mutton, goat cheese, and fresh mushrooms, fried in oil. I've heard them called unwholesome, but at my age, I care not."

Cornelia stares at him and surreptitiously licks her lips "Four."

"Cardixa," he observes, "will like it not."

"It shall be our secret," Cornelia says, smiling conspiratorially at Sappho. "And bring some for Sappho as well, as a reward for her good nature and discretion."

"I would like two, _domine_ ," Sappho says firmly and Dean sees the steward--who is already not his favorite person--look scornful. That guy, he suspects, needs to try out a new expression: maybe a punch or two would help with that.

"Well done. You grow more Roman by the day," Publius says approvingly as he starts toward the door. "We all wish to do well by our fellow man, but it hurts not at all for our fellow man to reward us with something more substantial than mere gratitude."

"I will see you then." Turning as the door shuts, Cornelia sees Cardixa appear, looking grim, and her smile fades. "What's wrong?"

Cardixa hesitates. "Licinia."

* * *

Castiel's attempt at surreptitious observation fails before it even begins; Sudha looks up before he even reaches the door, reaching up to push a strand of dark brown hair behind her ear.

"Cas," she says in Hindi, reaching to rub her back with a faint frown. "Come in," she adds, waving to him as she makes another firm circle of the room. "How are you this morning?"

"I was about to ask you the same question," he answers in the same language, closing the door, and firmly averts his eyes from the large round protrusion of her abdomen. Human gestation never ceases to amaze him, and in this case, seeing a woman whose pregnancy makes her nearly as wide as she tall is--unusual. 

Making her way back to the bed, she takes his extended hand to ease herself back down onto the mattress and gives him a wry smile. "You can look," she says, gazing down at her own body in amusement. "I still find it somewhat surprising myself, and I've had months to accustom myself." She nods toward the only chair. "Please, sit."

"Thank you." Pulling the chair closer to the bed, he tries once again to decide how to broach the subject (he'd hoped Dean would be of help, being human, but no). The mother always survives, he reminds himself; in all of history, no god has ever broken this most sacred trust with their worshippers, and he cannot-- _will not_ \--believe that this one would take the time to give her this and then allow Lucifer to kill them before they could complete the covenant. Surely even gods can manage that much.

Faith: that doesn't mean those of them on earth should not do their best to help assure success. Though how he's to do that is still something of a mystery.

"Cas?" Sudha says, and he sets aside his own concerns at the thread of worry in her voice, smiling at her and seeing her relax. "Is everything--" She breaks off, hand going to her stomach and looking down; following her gaze, he watches incredulously as a tiny bulge pushes up beneath the thin material of her colorful cotton kurta and loosely-cut paijamas. "She's active today," Sudha says with a grin, looking at him and extending an imperative hand. "Here."

Startled, he gives her his hand, and she carefully places it on the curve of her belly. "Wait," she tells him, covering his hand with her own, and even having seen it, Castiel stills when he feels the firm press of something very like a tiny fist against his palm. Forgetting himself, he scoots his chair closer, letting her move his hand as she wills across her abdomen, mouth dry at the feel of activity beneath the surface of her skin. 

"I think they're becoming impatient," Sudha tells him softly, and looking up, he sees her soft smile, face alight from within. "I can't argue the point; I'm rather impatient to meet them myself."

He looks into the warm brown eyes and what words he has vanish; he can't tell her what he suspects and steal away any part of her joy.

"Is something wrong?" she asks, smile fading.

"Not at all," he says. "I would like permission to be present during your labor and the birth."

She blinks at him, and yes, he does know it could have been done better, but it could have also been done far, far worse.

"There are a limited number of medical personnel," he hears himself way, lips shaping words that seem to come from the ether. "Vera is my doctor and I assisted her when Dean was ill and she taught me a great deal. As she'll be attending on you--if she needs assistance--I can...do that."

Sudha slowly raises an eyebrow.

"I won't violate your privacy or modesty," he continues, unable to discover where the words are coming from, much less stop them. "Two of my former vessels bore offspring prior to my time with them. I did have access to their memories, however, and...that might be of help." Not better. "Traditionally, the Host would attend women in labor who were in--challenging circumstances, to bring them comfort with our presence."

Sudha looks surprised. "I didn't know that."

"Oh yes," he says, nodding hopefully; it has happened, after all. "While I'm no longer an angel, of course, it's...." _Now_ the words stop: why?

Sudha's surprise melts into sympathy, and inexplicably, she pats his hand. "I forgot about that," she says, tilting her head to give him a (very kind) smile. "Of course you can."

Castiel just stops himself from asking what she forgot and why she's looking at him as if she just heard his personal canine was unfortunately flattened on some sort of road. He's not stupid. "Thank you," he says sincerely. "I'm honored by your trust."

"The honor is mine," she answers before she sighs. "I should finish packing."

"Packing?" he asks, then realizes there's an open bag on the bed, half-filled, and another near the door. "Where are you going?"

"The third floor," she says with another sigh, then shakes her head. "Quieter, and farther from the isolation rooms and the ER. The east wing is as done as it's going to be, and there's at least two other women who will be giving birth within the next few days, so we're all being put together."

He nods in understanding at the very timely sound of someone yelling in the near distance. "Tell me what you want packed," he offers when she looks half-heartedly around the room.

"Just what's in the file cabinet-dresser," she says, pointing toward the corner where a battered metal file cabinet is slumping against the wall. "Rabin finished moving the furniture I needed last night."

Taking her bag, he opens the file cabinet and carefully begins to remove the remaining clothing. 

"I forgot to ask," she says. "Has Nate returned yet?"

"Not yet," he says absently, checking the remaining drawers and finding them empty. "They should return at noon...." He stops short closing the bottom drawer and turns to look at her. "You met Nate?"

"He introduced himself a couple of days ago," she answers, bracing a hand behind her and frowning down at what must be some very interesting activity occurring within her. "Your militia is very friendly."

"I'm pleased that you think so," he agrees, closing the drawer carefully. "Nate was pleasant?"

"Very much so," she answers as Castiel extends a hand and helps her to her feet before getting her other bag himself. "In case I don't see him soon, would you thank him for me?"

"Of course," Castiel answers, waiting for her to precede him out the door. "If it isn't an intrusion--could I know what I'm to thank him for?"

"The room," she answers, and Castiel just avoids walking into the doorframe. "We're stretched a little thin for help, but Nate said he could have them ready in time for us. He even asked what color I'd prefer for the walls. I haven't seen it yet," she adds, looking at him. "Want to come with me?"

Castiel look from her to the stairs. "Yes, I would."

* * *

"She escaped her silly maid," Cardixa says, looking grimmer still. "My own fault, Lia; I knew better than to leave Licinia in the care of that stupid chit while I met with the physician. It was no more than half an hour, but...."

"Licinia's very skilled in escaping," Cornelia says, squeezing her maid's shoulder. "Where was she?"

"Walking into the Tiber." Cornelia closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. "Several men on the docks saw her and rescued her and returned her to us."

Cornelia's jaw tightens. "We won't be able to conceal that--"

"It is already done," Cardixa interrupts, meeting Cornelia's eyes. "I know not how, but they concealed her well and substituted a dead mule in the Tiber to explain if someone saw something--the man who came with them promised me not so much as a whisper shall reach any ears and any tongue that speaks of it will be removed before they can complete a single word."

"They shall be rewarded, of course. Their names--"

"None would give them nor accept reward. They said to tell you that Rome will protect you always." Cardixa hesitates. "The man who spoke--I recognized him. He's custodian of a Crossroads College in the Subura. He says a freedman who has no business on the Palatine is often to be found here, though why he doesn't know, and he has far too much money to spend and is far too free with it as well. He said to give you this." Cardixa reaches out, and Cornelia opens her hand to receive a handful of twigs and dried wood. "He said to tell you, 'For remembrance'."

Cornelia looks at it for a long moment, then closes her fingers around it with an unreadable expression before she takes out her purse, placing it inside. "Thank you. Go give orders for dinner while I meet with the physician. See what we have to prepare Licinia's favorite dishes tonight to tempt her appetite."

"Yes, _domina_." Cardixa glances at Sappho sternly before looking at Cornelia with obvious significance. Sappho nods, sliding into Cornelia's shadow and seeming to almost vanish as she follows her into the _tabilium_.

"Emet," Cornelia says with a warm smile as the man rises, wearing Greek dress but with his head shaved bare, and it's only Sappho's bewildered expression that tells him Cornelia's speaking demotic Egyptian, not Greek. "Thank you for coming."

"For you, Lady," Emet responds in the same language, bowing low over her hand, "no request would be denied."

"Please be seated." As they arrange themselves, Cornelia folds her hands neatly in the folds of her skirts. "Is there anything you can do for her?"

He meets her eyes, and his expression says everything before he speaks a word. "Diseases of the mind are unknown by any but the gods; her condition, in my experience, is a progressive one. She will soon not know her mind at all." Cornelia nods, expression unchanged. "I will say this; after speaking to all your household, I suspect something--I know not what--is making her condition far worse than it should be at this stage, and it eats at her. My recommendation is to remove her to the country with only her most loyal servants and friends in attendance, those who knew Gaius Sempronius and loved him as she did, so she may talk of him and hear of him and feel him near her. I cannot promise she will grow better, or that she will not grow worse, but the progression could be slowed, and you will have more time with her."

Cornelia nods. "I understand."

"I left your Cardixa with medication that will soothe her without causing lethargy," Emet says. "The recipe I gave her as well. Some items are difficult to get in Rome proper, but send to the Ambassador of your need and we will acquire it for you."

"You are kind, Emet," Cornelia says, smiling and extending her hand, which he rises and takes eagerly. "Please offer the Ambassador my thanks as well."

"My King worries for you," Emet says quietly. "He would remind you he likes his wife not and should you wish for a change of air and a loving husband, Alexandria and Memphis are known for their good health."

Cornelia laughs softly, genuinely. "Tell the King our chess game is still on hold in Misenum, and I await his next move."

"I think," Emet says, smiling back, "that he makes it now. I will return in two days' time to assess Licinia's condition."

"And stay to dinner," she says, rising to her feet. "And the Ambassador as well. He's only just returned from Alexandria, I understand, and I would like to hear how his visit prospered."

Emet tilts his head thoughtfully. "Your Roman nobleman will like that not."

"They'll survive _infra dignitatem_ by proxy admirably, I assure you," she answers wryly. "Did my idiot steward offer you no refreshment? Let me call for--"

A scream cuts her off, and Dean sees Sappho straighten, sliding out of the room before Cornelia turns toward the doorway, Emet at her heels. 

"Lia," Cardixa says, red-faced and terrified as she appears in the hall, "Licinia has barred the bathing room door, she will not answer us, her maid does nothing but cry--"

"Get an axe," Cornelia says calmly, and like magic, Cardixa relaxes while two men behind her go running. "Where is Claudia?"

"At the door, trying to convince her to open it," Cardixa says, falling into step beside her, Sappho on their heels. "The maid says Licinia was calmed, asked for a hot bath so she could clean herself--"

Cornelia's step checks before she takes up a stride just short of a run. "Even she couldn't be that stupid."

"Find Publius," Sappho says, grabbing a frightened looking man and staring into his eyes. "He is on his way to the market; tell him we have need of him and to run." As soon as he nods, Sappho follows in Cornelia's footsteps.

When she arrives, Cornelia is staring at the bathing room door, with Cardixa trying to coax Claudia, sobbing Licinia's name against the heavy wood, away from the door so the two men holding an axe and what looks like a sledgehammer can approach.

"I'll get her," Sappho says quietly, and gently eases by Cardixa before picking Claudia up as easily as a child, whispering to her gently as she sobs, while the two men start to chop the door apart. 

The moment the opening is big enough, Cornelia gestures sharply and approaches, careless of splinters, and once inside, all Dean can see is her stop short.

"Get it open," Sappho snaps at the men, stroking the sobbing Claudia calmer. "Now."

At double time, they do it, and Sappho gestures sharply for one of the girls hovering nearby. "Take Claudia to her cubicle and stay at her side. Allow her neither food nor drink you have not tasted yourself and have someone search her room for sharp instruments she might use. Do not turn your eyes from her for a moment, do you understand me?" The girl stares at her, and Sappho's voice lowers dangerously. "If any harm comes to her, I will gut you alive and leave you for the crows."

Terrified, the girl nods, and Sappho leaves Claudia to her, following Cardixa into the room, and stopping short by the immobile Cornelia staring at the sunken bath.

Licinia's head is tilted back, cheek resting on a bed of blond hair that spills over the raised rim of the tub and over the floor, closed eyes sunk into bruised shadows and lips still parted from her last breath, her face as colorless as the marble around her. It takes a minute for Dean to work out what's wrong with the too-still, dark water and realizes that's because it's red. On the edge of the sunken tub is a small, jeweled eating knife, blade shining in the light of the oil lanterns filling the room.

The water's still steaming.

Dean hears a soft sound at his side, and turning, he sees his companion has tears in her eyes. Reaching out, he touches her arm. "You okay?"

"They told Mama it was a wasting illness," she whispers, tears sliding down her cheeks, and without thinking, Dean wraps an arm around her shoulders, giving her something to lean against if she needs to. "She barely remembers anything of her, just what her grandmother told her, about how pretty and bright she was and how much she and my grandfather loved each other." She looks up at Dean. "She wasn't very strong. Her father wasn't as kind as a _paterfamilias_ should be to his daughter, and even her husband and his family could not help what was broken beyond repair."

"No one should have to be that strong." He thinks of how Gaius died and what was done to him after, what Licinia would think of his fate. Left to wander the shores of the Styx and Acheron for all of time, another lost shade unable to cross and slowly growing mad for all of time a river's width from home.

"No one deserved such a fate," he hears her whisper, like a promise, maybe to herself. "We will not have it. We're almost ready, and this I swear: I won't fail."

Publius enters the room, eyes flickering to Cornelia, then the bath, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath before going to Cornelia's side. 

"I need to get her out." Cornelia starts determinedly toward the tub; after exchanging an alarmed glance, Cardixa and Publius reach her just as she kneels by Licinia, reaching to touch her face with a stark expression that Dean looks away from: that wasn't meant for anyone to see but maybe the dead. "Don't fret," she says for no ears but those that can't hear. "Play with him on the shores before you cross, if you wish; he will enjoy it very much. I will take care of all else." Then, to Dean's horror, she reaches both arms into the bloody water and starts to ease Licinia up and out.

"No," Publius says, wrapping an arm around Cornelia's shoulders and pulling her back, bloody water trailing over her dress, other arm going around her waist. "It's not fit for you--"

"I am a patrician Cornelia," she grits out as Cardixa gives Sappho a desperate look that sends her running back out the door. "If I do it, it is fit. Let me go to my daughter."

The two men come inside immediately--Sappho right on their heels and hissing something he's glad isn't directed at him--as Publius slowly, inexorably eases Cornelia back. Dean can tell he really wants to pick her up, but the set look on her face probably scares the guy as much as it does Dean.

"Get a sheet for her," Cornelia snaps at one of the maids, now aware she's been subtly dragged away and won't be getting back there, though from the way Publius is holding onto her, she's sure as hell trying. "I will not have her exposed to any eyes that might see."

Sappho looks at Cardixa and then Publius before silently withdrawing and starts toward the other side of the house, crossing the peristyle garden unseeingly and entering a pretty sitting room--Licinia's, got to be--and looks around before she starts to search.

It doesn't take her long; Licinia might have been a good escape artist, but she knew shit about hiding things. Sitting on the floor of Licinia's sleep cubicle, Sappho spreads out the rolls of paper, starting with the first and reading each unsigned letter, sometimes simply words, other times sketches in gruesome detail: of Gaius' body on the ground in the Grove of the Furies, of it being slowly mutilated and dismembered, of the pieces sinking into the Tiber; sometimes it's just his head, empty eye sockets staring and mouth pried open to show no coin for Charon within, skull sawed open and brain removed before it was filled with molten gold, for the promise of Opimius' rich reward for whoever brought him Gaius's head, amount decided by its weight. 

" _Cunni_ ," his companion spits, tears gone and eyes hot with growing anger. "To use her weakness against her--"

"She wasn't _weak_ ," Dean interrupts flatly, looking at the number of letters spread out, some crisply new, others rolled and rerolled so many times there are rips in the paper: the surface of all are stained with tears. This started before she even got to Rome; how the hell did they get to her in goddamn _Misenum_? Months: they've been doing this to her for _months_. "She was hurt, and they didn't stop hitting her, so she took away their goddamn punching bag! Fuck that shit, _no one_ should have to be strong enough to deal with _that_!"

He feels his companion looking up at him and realizes abruptly he's talking about her _grandmother_. Who just died. "Sorry. Uh."

"Don't be," she answers, staring up at him with a weird look. "You're right. I stand corrected."

Slowly, painfully, Sappho reads every one, expression as impassive as Cornelia's before she gathers them again, rolling them up and concealing them somewhere in her dress and starting toward a different part of the house, finding Licinia's maid, who's crying in the empty servant's quarters.

For a second, Sappho doesn't say anything, looking at her for a long moment, then rearranges her expression to sympathy and goes to the girl. Dean can't hear what she says--honestly, he's surprised Sappho can make any of it out between the sobs and runny nose--but Sappho nods, hugging her gently, and rising without expression to return to the other part of the house. She joins Cornelia again outside the bathing room--Dean wonders how the hell Publius managed to get her out--still in her wet gown, faded red-pink stains winding down her bare arms where the bloody water dried just in time to watch the men carry out Licinia's sheet-wrapped body.

The man stumbles when he steps on a piece of splintered wood, and the sheet slips, one bloodless arm falling free. For a searing moment, everyone can see the long, deep slices on her inner arm from elbow to wrist; in that much, Licinia didn't fuck around. Her head slides off his shoulder, blonde hair falling over his arm, but looking at still her face, Dean realizes something he missed earlier; she's smiling, like when Death finally came for her, it was very kind, a welcome friend.

Cornelia waves away the unstoppered jar that Emet is holding. "I'm fine," she says precisely. "If you would, could you prepare something for Claudia? The shock may have upset her unduly."

"Of course, _domina_ ," he says, bowing, and Cornelia gives him a brief smile, but the dark eyes are dull, like the light's been put out.

"Thank you."

"A servant is with her," Sappho says softly as Emet withdraws. "She should be moved to a new suite, _domina_."

Cornelia's lips part briefly, glancing at Sappho to see her touch the place in her skirt the papers are concealed. Publius follows her gaze and his jaw hardens.

"A new room would be best, yes," Cornelia answers. "Hers is too close to Licinia's. Cardixa, please see to it. And let no one enter Claudia's old suite or the new one other than you or Emet without my express permission."

Cardixa bows her head. "At once, _domina_."

"Publius, Sappho, please accompany me to the _tabilium_ ," Cornelia continues, dark eyes fixing on the suddenly obsequious steward. "I assume you can see to your duties?"

"Yes, _domina_." He bows deeply, and Cornelia's eyes narrow, there-and-gone before she turns, leading the way to the _tabilium_. As Publius shuts the door behind them, Sappho sets the bundle on the desk and steps back. Cornelia picks them up, reading each at a glance before dropping them on the desk, expression never changing. 

"The maid says a freedman, very kind, was in this house and would meet her in the kitchens once per _nundinae_ though the days differed. He was the same one who brought your correspondence from Rome, so she thought him a friend," Sappho reports. "He told her they were from an admirer and would please Licinia so she would be less sad. She did not understand why they made Licinia upset, as she did not see them herself, because Licinia told her not to and she cannot read Latin, only Greek."

At a knock on the door, Cornelia looks up, expression freezing as a woman enters.

"Mater?" she says, and it takes Dean a second to realize that's Sempronia, Cornelia's only daughter. When she was among those receiving word of Gaius's death, she'd seemed a younger, duller model of Cornelia; now the wide, dark eyes she shares with her mother are the only similarity that remains.

"Ecastor," his companion whispers, and yeah. 

Sempronia's dropped enough weight that she's not just thin, she's _emaciated_ ; stick-like arms poke from beneath the elegant black _palla_ she clutches around her, and her gown hangs on her like it was made for someone else entirely. Cheeks hollowed out, lips thin and almost as grey as the dark olive skin, eyes are sunken into black hollows, she has the indefinable feeling of someone still moving from sheer force of will and nothing else, and even from here, he can see her shivering from cold despite the warmth of the day. 

It's the first time he's ever seen Cornelia genuinely thrown, licking her lips uncertainly with a flash of guilt that vanishes beneath a bad impression of her usual calm. "Sempronia," she says softly, circling around the desk and going to the door. "What do you here? You should be resting."

Dean checks out Publius and Sappho; neither looks surprised, but there and gone is that guilt again, this time on Publius's face.

"Mater, the household is an uproar. They're saying...." She stills as Cornelia reaches her, and whatever she sees on Cornelia's face must be confirmation; she catches her breath before her eyes roll back, and Cornelia catches her as she collapses, supporting her to the floor. 

"Sappho," she says, and immediately Sappho and Publius are with them, Sappho removing a bottle from her dress and handing it to Cornelia as she holds Sempronia against her shoulder. "Beloved," Cornelia whispers, waving the bottle under Sempronia's nose. "Come now, my love."

Another woman hurries in, and Dean takes a moment; six foot two (at least) with shoulders like a goddamn linebacker, pale skinned with mousy brown hair and the look of someone who could bench press pretty much everyone in the room. As lightly as someone half her size, she kneels on Sempronia's other side, looking a combination of worried and annoyed (an expression Cardixa wears around Cornelia a lot); on a guess, this is Sempronia's maid.

"Nissa, could you not have sent for me?" Cornelia asks quietly. "She shouldn't be excited, the physician was very clear on that."

"Forgive me, _domina_ ," Nissa answers, shaking her head as she helps Cornelia support Sempronia. "She heard the servants shouting and went to investigate before I could stop her." There's an unspoken 'and tackle her to the ground' that Cornelia seems to understand.

"My pardon," Cornelia answers, lifting her head for a quick, reassuring smile at Nissa. "I did birth and rear her, so know her nature." Then, voice changing, "There you are, beloved. Lie still now; you are far too pale."

"I am well," Sempronia says, sounding like she should be in bed for like a month and eating the entire goddamn time. "It was but a moment; it's passed. Mother, tell me; is it true? Licinia is...."

Cornelia leans closer, and while he can't hear what they say, he sees it in Cornelia's back and the way Sempronia goes still. 

"Let Nissa assist you to you room," Cornelia says, straightening. She and Cornelia exchange a look before Nissa gets to her feet and crouches to help her up, by which he means pretends she's not picking her up like a goddamn doll. "I'll be with you shortly."

Cornelia watches the door for several seconds after they left. "I am not altogether content with her current physician's recommended treatement," she says evenly, and Dean's pretty sure if he could read her mind, she'd be kicking the guy all over the house right now. "I need to speak to Emet. Publius, Sappho, please, wait for me here," Cornelia adds distractedly. "I will return in a few minutes."

"Yes, _domina_ ," Sappho says, bowing her head, and Publius nods. As soon as she's gone, Publius approaches the desk with Sappho at his heels, picking up each loosely rolled letter and reading it carefully. "They were in Licinia's sleeping cubicle, beneath the mattress."

"I'll search Claudia's suite," he says neutrally. "Sempronia's maid has been with her since childhood; she allows nothing that might upset Sempronia or cause any degradation to her health. She, at least, was spared--this." _Filth_ , he doesn't say and doesn't need to: there's no other word for it.

"Has she always been so ill?" Sappho asks, and Dean remembers she's only seen her here in Rome.

"She was a sickly child, took every ailment that she came across and some that seemed to seek her out," Publius says, eyes fixed on the papers. "Her will was always very strong, however, even as a babe, and she grew in strength and spirit; Cornelia saw to that. She does very well in the country, but she does take every illness that may pass while we are in Rome, and far prefers seclusion and quiet."

Sappho stills, though her expression doesn't change. "She is widow of...Publius Cornelius Scipio...Aemilianus...." Her eyebrows draw together sharply as she struggles for the rest, and Publius looks at her with the ghost of amusement. 

"Africanus Numantinus," he says blandly, and looking relieved, Sappho nods. "Yes, consular and censor in his time. Why do you ask?"

"It's my duty to know all I can of the family I serve," she answers just as blandly, and Publius nods silent approval. "I understand that during her marriage, she was often ill as well, and required seclusion during her recovery. Gossip cannot be trusted, of course, so I paid it no mind."

"In that much of what you heard, there is some truth," Publius agrees, picking up another of the scrolls to scan. "There are always rumors, Sappho; the wise do not ignore them, but learn to discern the truth within the fiction. I appreciate the difficulties of your position and commend your sense of duty. Obviously, it would be improper to request clarification from Cornelia on such a subject, but if something confuses or troubles you, feel free to ask me so I may provide enlightenment."

"I thank you for your kindness, _domine_ ," she answers, busying herself with unnecessarily straightening a chair. "I would like to take advantage of your offer now, if it is convenient."

"Of course," Publius agrees with elaborate nonchalance, and Dean wonders if he should take notes or something. So this is how people work up to a subject; he's wondered about that. "I'm at your service."

"During those very pleasant dinner parties that entertain us all, when I was not attending to my mistress, of course, I would often overhear discussion among the other servants."

Publius doesn't look up from the scroll, but since its upside down, Dean seriously doubts he's reading it. "Did you hear something that troubled you? Please elucidate: you need not fear reproach. It's expected that you pay attention to what you hear; how else will you learn?"

"Thank you, _domine_. Among the topics discussed freely among them," Sappho says, committed to moving that chair like an eighth of an inch, "Sempronia's absence was noted and commented on, of course. Among the older servants--whose age I'm sure must excuse them much--it was remembered that their marriage was--somewhat difficult." Publius nods casual agreement, and encouraged, Sappho continues. "It was also said that Sempronia was subject to spells of dizziness and was often--clumsy, due to them coming upon her unaware."

Publius's fingers tighten on the scroll. "Now that you mention it, I vaguely remember hearing such rumors myself."

"You reassure me," Sappho says, staring at the chair like it personally offended her. "Her...husband, I understand, often referred to those when explaining her absence."

"Yes, that would explain how I heard it," Publius agrees, but something in his voice makes Sappho shoot him a wary look. "I appreciate the reminder, Sappho; at my age, the memory can be uncertain. Did you hear anything else of note?"

Sappho hesitates again, as if choosing her words with care. "It was said that--he often failed to accord her the respect due to her as his wife, and would speak publicly of her in ways some found unbecoming in a Roman nobleman." When Publius doesn't react, Sappho continues. "I received the impression that he was not as kind as--as a husband should be to their wife."

Publius stills, hand clenching on the paper. "No, Sappho, he was not."

Dean unlocks his jaw with an effort. "Uh, are they saying--"

"Yes," she answers, and the controlled anger in her voice matches the controlled impassivity of Publius's expression. "That is what they're saying."

Sappho closes her eyes for a long moment. "Thank you, _domine_."

The door to the _tabilium_ opens again, and Sappho smooths her expression and at Cornelia's gesture, joins them at the desk.

"Publius," she says quietly, and in her eyes Rome burns for a thousand years. "I have work for you."

"I was hoping," he says conversationally, "that is what you would say."

She reaches behind the desk and places a book bucket on the chair. Reaching inside, she picks one and sets it on the edge of the desk. "The exception to the _lex Vocania_ , allowing my granddaughter Sempronia to inherit the Gracchi fortune and property in full and in preference to any past, present, or future claimants, male or female. It lasts two generations and will allow the inheritance of her daughter as well should she have no sons."

Publius nods. "And that fortune--"

"This one, returning the Gracchi fortune in whole, along with all property, to my granddaughter to be held in her own right," Cornelia says, adding a second scroll. "This one lifts the proscription of Gaius Sempronius and Tiberius Sempronius and confirms that they are not _nefas_ and I can buy their passage on Charon's barge. The Pontifex Maximus will be _personally_ directed by the Senate to accept payment in full." She adds the third, meeting Publius's eyes. "Licinia will meet my son on the shores of Styx and Acheron and they will cross together."

"The rest?"

"This one rescinds the proscription of my son's followers and allows them to pursue careers as their fathers did before them," she answers crisply, adding three more. "This one restores their fortunes and property to them. The Senate will never permit the latter but they'll accept the former once they see it. This restores Claudia and Licinia's dowries in full, Licinia's inheritable by her daughter Sempronia." She stares the others and picks one up. "This one directs the Senate to order I be given first choice when the property of all those who followed my son and the three thousand executed without trial goes to State auction, and the opening price will be reduced by three-fifths." She meets Publius's eyes. "One fifth for each of my children that they killed." 

Publius smiles. "Well done."

There are others--something about committal days, something about _feria_?--but the last one she holds in her hand for a long moment, staring at the seal before setting it on the desk.

"And this one rescinds the proscription of the family of Gaius Flavius Flaccus and permits them to return to Rome."

"Gaius Flavius was Gaius Sempronius's closest friend and partner," Publius says. "Even dead, they will not--"

"They will," she answers. "His only living son is only a few years older than my little Sempronia, his wife was abandoned by her family; they are destitute." The revulsion in her voice is unmistakable. "I will not have it. He will climb the _cursus honorium_ and be tribune of the plebs, praetor, and consul in his time, as his father was before him and my sons should have been. This will be done."

He nods. "What else?"

"This is the price of each tribune of the plebs who is not already bought or can be repurchased to the sestertius," she says, handing him several smaller scrolls, unsealed. "This is a list of senators in need of funds for highly expensive and some might call illegal habits. We pay or they will: I leave it to your discretion on which. Beneath are two of the most expensive courtesans in Rome; speak first to Flavia Ursa. She was very attached to Gaius Fulvius and would happily assist us, and an Alexandrian crown will encourage her to do her good work quickly among her current lovers. I need every backbencher I can acquire."

Publius eyes the scrolls thoughtfully. "It will take time for them to draft that much legislation-"

"These are summaries," she interrupts. "I drafted the them myself; they're stored in the empty cubicles by my sleep cubicle. All they have to do is present them, and I wrote their speeches already as well as their arguments and counters. I need a majority in the Senate first, they will make the decree--not worth the paper it's written on, but I want it--and then it will be presented to the Plebian Assembly to be ratified and legally iron-clad; that means I need all thirteen votes without a veto."

Publius glances down the lists, making a face. "I see several problems."

"I anticipated that." Reaching into the desk, she takes out the metal-cased scroll, weighing it in her hand, then opening it and removing the paper within. 

"What is that?" Dean asks his companion.

She shakes her head. "I'm not sure."

"You need no instruction from me on how best to use this," she continues, taking out her purse and dumping the contents on the desk. From among the coins and slips of paper, she picks out the pieces of wood that Cardixa gave her until a tiny pile of tinder fills her palm. "Enough to fill your hand at each. For remembrance."

Publius nods. 

"It was Opimius' work," Cornelia says abruptly, lips flattening. "He wanted me out of Rome, and used Licinia to try and accomplish it."

"I doubt," Publius replies, "that he meant her to suicide."

"I doubt he cared as long as it resulted in me leaving Rome." Cornelia's eyelids lower, but not before Dean sees something cold in their depths, the kind of hatred that can last a lifetime. "He'll wait, however. First, I shall have from Rome what I am owed."

"Cornelia Africana Roma Triumpha," Publius says softly, bowing his head. "Your will be done."

"Sappho," she says, and Sappho jumps little before rearranging her expression to match Cornelia's, "tomorrow, you will go with Cardixa and one of my freedman clients to the markets and select Claudia a new maid and my granddaughter a nursemaid. I don't care if they speak Greek or Latin or cannot speak at all. My only requirements are of character; they should be intelligent, loyal, discreet, of strong will, and good nature, the rest I can teach them myself. We shall look forever to find one to match Nissa, but if you can find one of at least your height or greater, that would be a great comfort. Select ten of each between you, interview them, narrow it to three for each position, and I will interview them here with you and Cardixa in attendance."

"And Licinia's and Claudia's maids?" Publius asks neutrally.

"I will send them to Misenum to await my return," she answers. "They cannot be trusted, but they're of sweet nature and are loyal, simply stupid. Among my tenants are many who would be glad to have a freedwoman wife from my household, and I can dower them sufficiently to assure their future comfort. I will need a new steward as well." She meets Publius's eyes and that dangerous hate Dean saw in the Forum comes to life. "Please tell me when you discover he's escaped and you cannot find him."

"I shan't search for more than two, perhaps three days," he says. "I'll select your new one myself, of course."

"Thank you. I will be in my sitting room," she says, and the very slight change in her voice makes both Publius and Sappho stiffen. "I will not be disturbed. By anyone."

Publius bows and Sappho as well as she walks to the door. Dean can't look away, watching her walk the long length of her home, nodding to a servant, pausing to answer a question, expression calm as she reaches her sitting room and locks the door. For a long moment, she stares at nothing, and then she crumples slowly, painfully, with a single strangled gasp worse than any scream or sob. 

"Stop," he says flatly, and it doesn't, it _doesn't_ , fuck this shit, two steps and he punches a flat wall and a stationary picture of a woman's endless grief.

Taking a deep breath, he watches for anything else to show up, but it looks like the (really fucking invasive) show's over. Turning, he frowns to look at the blank look on his companion's face. "Hey, you okay?"

She's no Sempronia or anything, but he thinks her face is thinner than it was last time, full lips tight, and the lines on her face are the kind you have when things are bad and just getting worse. No jewelry either, he realizes in surprise; the brown hair is tucked into a simple roll at the back of her head, and even her gown is plain, a stark, unrelieved white that emphasizes the ashen quality of the olive skin she shares with Cornelia and Sempronia.

"It's not working, is it?" he asks; he's not clear on 'what' is supposed to work, sure, but he gets the feeling it's pretty goddamn important.

She looks up, and he's struck suddenly by how much she resembles Cornelia there if in no other way, and thinking of Cornelia's life, he wonders suddenly what hers was like when she was alive. He should look that up, you know, when he gets a name. 

"No," she whispers, and even though he was ready for it, it hits him like a blow. Looking around, Dean realizes there's no furniture and quickly adds a couch before reaching for her arm, leading her over. Sitting down, she drops her head into her hands. "That's the problem with nothing written; you have to write it all yourself. There's no way to know if you're doing it right or even if you do, if it'll work."

Sitting beside her, he tentatively rests an arm over her shoulders, feeling the tension emanating from every muscle. 

"Better than the other way," he answers honestly. "Trust me, the script is always worse."

She turns her head to look at him through red-rimmed eyes. "What if I can't do this?"

"Dude, at least wait until the battle starts before you declare defeat." She blinks at him. "Cas," he admits and her mouth softens; yeah, he figured she knew him. "If you can't, you can't, happens to everyone; that's when you call for help."

She straightens, looking incredulous and amused. "This isn't even 'do as I say not as I do'," she remarks. "This is 'I had no idea you even knew the concept existed'."

"You're funny," he assures her, and she laughs softly. "If it's going wrong, take a deep breath, step back, and figure out how to fix it. Simple."

"You make it sound easy," she answers wryly.

"Never said it was easy," he says. "Simple's never easy, for the record."

She nods, rubbing her eyes. "I'm so tired, Dean."

Yeah, that he gets. "That's half your problem right there," he says, glad Cas will never hear this conversation; he'd be smug for-fucking-ever. "And I got your solution."

"What?"

Calling in a blanket, Dean drapes it around her and uses his catlike reflexes, her surprise (and her being really tired, yeah) to tip her sideways against his shoulder. "Rest," he says triumphantly as she tips her head back to glare at him balefully. "Come on, not like we don't have time in here."

"I can't," she starts, trying to get up (but not all that hard, he notes). "I have to--"

"Do shit, I know," he says. "This? Is one of the things you gotta do. It'll be fine."

She hesitates, tipping her head back to frown at him.

"Promise. Now get some rest," he says, and finally, she leans her head against his shoulder with a sigh. "I'll keep watch."

* * *

After getting a carafe from Brenda and two extra cups, Dean returns to the Situation Room and is surprised to see Kamal leaning over Vicky's shoulder with a baffled look. 

"No, it's easy," she insists, pointing to something on the screen. "Look, let me show you again. This column is for--"

"Hey," Dean says, and doesn't even smile when Kamal jumps, because leaders don't do that. Much.

"Dean," Kamal says in relief. "We'll pick this up later," he tells Vicky as he starts toward the door. "Hey, can I talk to you for a sec?"

"Sure." Leaving the carafe and coffee on the nearest table, he follows Kamal out the door and into the empty room, watching as Kamal closes the door. "Everything okay?"

Kamal smiles smugly. "We found him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: suicide, method cutting wrists. It's not a play by play, but it is mentioned semi-explicitly; implied spousal abuse
> 
> Notes: I think it was Lua who had a tweet like 'oh God do we need to learn Roman history? ' (I adore you, Lua, that made me laugh so hard.) I don't mean to, I'm just that person you avoid at parties when you're warned she just picked up a new hobby and wants to tell everyone all about it until you want to die. You can skip and be fine, promise. 
> 
> 1.) Cornelia Africana was the number one draft choice for Wife of everyone who could breathe and includes [Ptolemy VII](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ptolemy_VIII_Physcon), who pursued her like it was his job. This isn't an exaggeration; she was thirty-eight, had four to six kids living at the time, and everyone not dead stalked her villa to get that sweet, sweet Cornelia action. Why? Money and ancestry, hell yeah, but no, that wasn't all, you could get money and ancestry from half a dozen eighteen year old patrician girls and more time to get kids out of them.
> 
> From childhood she was a public figure as the second daughter of Africanus, and her prodigal intelligence was more than once referenced showing up early. They talk about her carting around Greek philosophers with her for fun (she did), her massive ridiculous correspondence with everyone ever (yes, reams of it), her quips turned political capital (yes), her incredible education (fuck yeah), her extraordinarily happy marriage (really)...I could go on. She was not beautiful--there is almost no reference I can find by contemporary sources on her looks, and later ones make up shit for giggles. Contemporaries talk about her character, her virtues, her strength....and her mind. That was why.
> 
> 2.) [Quintus Fabius Maximus Eburnus](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quintus_Fabius_Maximus_Eburnus), a Roman senator, consul, and censor who was...we just don't know.
> 
> Roman law was family centered, in the sense that there was no authority higher than the _paterfamilias_. He held the right of life and death--literally--over his wife, children, unmarried sisters, widowed mother, brothers below the age of majority, and slaves. He had the legal right to do anything to them: imprison them, flog them, crucify them, kill them, or order someone else to do it. It's one of the oldest laws, and here's where Rome does something very typically Roman; they left the law there, but created new laws that could and did contradict it and called it a day. Because Rome.
> 
> Roman politics was--special; they make Trump look nice. "You're totally gay" was a legit political attack with the expected counter "No you are!" but in Latin with special words for whether you were a gay giver or a gay receiver of a specific gay act. Basically, if you weren't accused at least once of having a slave bang you while nailing your daughter _while_ giving a goat a good oral time, you weren't important. If you got entire tabloids written about it, congratulations; you might be consul.
> 
> Eburnus was born a patrician Servilia and adopted into the patrician Fabia because Romans weren't picky about whose sperm made sons (because Rome). He got the 'too pretty to not be into men' from the start, but he was destined to rule Rome; that's standard and at least no one mentioned livestock. Rich people would pretend to like each other because no character flaw was worse than not having money; Eburnus seemed to have been the exception like whoa. The more I read, the more I got the impression his defining act was only the last straw, which really makes me wonder what he was doing before this that made everyone so twitchy.
> 
> In what was probably his fifties, Eburnus executed his only son for unchastity, specifically [impudicitia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Homosexuality_in_ancient_Rome#Impudicitia) which is (we think) being the bottom piece of bread of an aristocrat/slave sandwich. This again was legal by Roman law; I read somewhere his son was seventeen, so there wasn't even the Roman version of coming of age and leaving your father's hand (again, Rome) to protect him. Eburnus was murderously golden. 
> 
> Rome. Went. Insane.
> 
> Rome loved old laws, but that doesn't mean you were supposed to actually do shit like that (that's why all the new ones were piled on top of it, like hiding a cat under a few hundred years of newspapers). Being Rome, they freaked out with lawyers. Eburnus was tried, convicted, and sent into exile for exceeding his legal authority to kill family members for any reason he wanted. (How? Because Rome.) It gets better; he was prosecuted by Gnaeus Pompeius Strabo of a new plebian family suspected of being descended from Gauls and would at almost any other time lose so hard because fuck new people. He won. Why? _Because Eburnus was that fucking creepy._


	16. Chapter 16

_\--Day 156, continued--_

"He didn't fight?" Dean asks Joe, just inside the Third Street building that had been designated holding for the drunk and disorderly on New Year's Eve and is now--well, more.

("This is temporary. Most problems are usually handled in my office at Admin," Naresh told them on New Year's Eve. "I'm assuming that won't be practical tonight.")

During the course of the party, it held: five drunk and disorderly, three altercations that couldn't be handled with a stern talk, and two of the Andale stoners on a bad acid trip, which Cas blamed on substandard manufacturing somethings. 

(Dean hasn't and won't ask if Cas will be spreading enlightenment on appropriate DYI drug making to the eager masses, because that's definitely better than Cas becoming drug dealer of Kansas. Though if he's honest, he's not sure why; Dean's already an illegal weapons dealer and they're first and second on the FBI Most Wanted. He's never aspired to being part of a power couple of crime, but if that's gonna happen, might as well do it right and hit all the bases.)

Observing the frantic activity, Dean considers the current population of Ichabod's Sort of Jail: twenty-one drunk and disorderly (ie people); forty-six fights serious enough that it couldn't be handled by volunteer staff; one domestic abuse (Dean's okay with exile right now for that shit); and a growing, rotating staff of progressively more bewildered volunteers (and they're all aware this is impossibly best case scenario with the sheer number of people stuffed into Ichabod right now). It's not that Ichabod didn't have problems like anyone else; it just self-selected to get rid of the reason you tend to need jail cells. (Dean doesn't discount 'pure fucking exhaustion from trying to survive' also being a factor here; any decent crime wave requires you be awake and able to walk, which field work, he's heard, does not encourage. He's really looking forward to spring, oh yeah.)

"Not really," Joe answers, shrugging as they start toward the room that Naresh is resentfully using as his headquarters (his office in Admin is much nicer). "Idiots two weren't with him, which might explain it; Micah, not a risk-taker. Naresh said he did invoke the Bill of Rights, though "

Dean looks up at him. "Seriously?"

"Micah was a lawyer before," Joe says, and Dean nods at the check for confirmation: sure, why not? "Anyway, this is sketchy territory, but me and Naresh thrashed it out. We can't take him out of the building, but he won't insist one of his people be in the room when you're questioning him. Two restrictions: only one of us in the room with him, and we're on the honor system; don't do anything he's not allowed to do. There'll be a check in an hour, but since we don't plan to beat him up--yet--I figured we'll go with it."

A lot better than he hoped. "You're good."

"I've had practice," Joe answers smugly just before they enter Naresh's doorless office, a peeling-paint nightmare with Naresh sitting behind a folding table visibly resenting the substandard accommodations (and the insane workload, if the pile of manila folders and papers are any indication).

"Naresh," Dean says, extending a hand as Naresh gets to his feet. "How's it going?"

Naresh's left eye twitches unsettlingly. "Wonderful," he says, and Dean can hear the faint British accent appear like a storm warning screaming everyone is gonna die. Okay, so. "How are you?"

"Good, good." Sitting down immediately when Naresh motions him toward the chairs, he cocks his head. "That bad?"

"It could be worse," Naresh admits reluctantly, sitting back. "My people have been helping the volunteers keep our visitors occupied and have set in place a thirty minute rule to lower the chances of a catalyst event. I must remember to thank Alicia for that suggestion."

Dean exchanges a bewildered look with Joe before asking, "Thirty minute rule?"

"Something Cas said about crowd stagnation," Naresh says, thinking. "Alicia suggested if the geas was working psychologically, we could out-psych it by simply assuring no one felt confined and were kept occupied. We divided the day into four six hour shifts and move groups working inside between rooms and jobs--or areas if they're unwell or can't work at this time--and encourage as many people as possible to take jobs outside fixing windows or repairing roofs, whatever seems needed. Combined with Wall duty--a very popular job--and infirmary and mess duties, as well as organizing childcare and assistance for the elderly and disabled, everyone is kept occupied with a variety of needed jobs, alleviating the dangers of boredom as well. To be truthful, under these conditions, I wouldn't need a geas to quickly go insane if I had nothing to do but sit and wonder what is happening and why."

Huh. "It's working?"

"There haven't been any more catalyst events," he points out, and yeah, there's that. "In more mundane ways, it's also helped them to feel more in control of their circumstances and lives. We've been able to finish repairs on several buildings on Seventh Street and Tony has brought three more up on the grid. Alison was taken on a tour by the families moving into the latest one this morning."

Of course she was there; he reminds himself to check in with Sean's team and maybe vaguely imply they're doing a good job working their way off his shit list. 

"So Micah," he starts and watches as Naresh's eye-twitch return with interest; looks like Micah's making the opposite of friends here. "Joe briefed me; anything you want to add?"

"Nothing in particular," he answers, sitting back with a sigh when the chair squeals protest to his existence. "I have two people in the room with him, both of whom are eager to leave. He's quoting Maryland legal statutes at them; pointing out we're not in Maryland doesn't seem to be deterring him."

Micah sounds like a hell of a charmer; no lie, Dean gets Carol's infatuation. "I appreciate you letting us talk to him," he says. "For the record, we don't know if he had anything to do with the attack yesterday, but we have reason to believe...." Okay, just say it. "Alicia thinks he had something to do with it. Or at least knew about it."

Naresh nods. "If he did, we'll need to discuss what to do with him, but as exile is our most extreme penalty...." He leans forward, giving Dean a searching look. "I assume if he did, you'll wish to claim him?"

Yeah, that. "We want him either way."

"Why?"

Dean considers leaving it vague, but--no. "I have confirmation he was involved in a failed assassination attempt on two members of Chitaqua two years ago. After this is over, unless Ichabod has some objections to us taking an attempted murderer, we want him back."

Beside him, Joe's chair creaks dangerously.

"You have proof?" Naresh asks.

"I have a witness," he answers steadily, not looking at Joe. "If needed, they'll confirm privately to Alison and you, but--for the record, it'll be exile from Kansas for us. We're not in the business of people hunting."

Naresh sits back, regarding him thoughtfully. "I assume you wish to keep this private."

"For now," he agrees. "At least until we know more." And hey, maybe tell the two victims about it first.

"I'll speak to Alison, but it will probably need to go before the town council," Naresh says finally, glancing at Joe, who is doing great with the poker face. "Dean, if it's not an imposition--how is Alicia? I understand she lost a team member, and Suma and I would like to offer our condolences."

"She's--uh, with her team," Dean answers blankly; he's pretty sure Matt and Jody would have noticed if she went missing. "Uh--I'll tell her, but uh, feel free to stop by. You should be on the list at the front desk."

"Thank you," Naresh says, sitting back, and Dean takes that as permission to escape. "Second floor, right hall, last door on the left. Check in with me when you're done?"

"Absolutely," Dean agrees, knowing Joe's at his back and he's probably going to need to talk about this. 

And he's right; they get halfway up the stairs and away from other ears when Joe hisses, "Micah was involved?"

"Yeah," Dean says. "Surprised?"

"Not even a little," Joe snorts. "Cas told you?"

Dean would love to stick with that, but on a guess, that will inevitably end--somehow--with Joe asking Cas about it, Cas denying it, and fuck his life. "No, don't ask, I'm not gonna tell, and that's for later, anyway. I haven't talked to Cas about it yet."

Joe makes a weird noise as they reach the top of the stairs. "You _haven't_?"

"Dude, it's been a little busy," he argues as they start down the hall; it's true (really). "So, you gonna listen at the door or what?"

"I am," Joe says, like Dean asked if air exists (ie: yes). "Unless you don't want me to, then I'll pretend I didn't. Scout's honor."

When they reach the door, Dean knocks and isn't entirely surprised at the quick response; a man's face peers out warily before he smiles in relief.

"Dean," he says, which Dean tries not to take as 'everyone knows his face whether he's ever seen them or not' but well, evidence. "Clyde," he adds, coming out and motioning for an even more relieved woman to join him. "This is Lalitha," he says, extending a dark, work-hardened hand to shut the door firmly behind her. "He's on _habeas corpus_ again."

Joe sighs noisily. "Sounds fun."

"All yours," Lalitha says, mouth quirking as she threads an arm through Clyde's. "We'll see you in an hour. Have fun."

"Thanks," he says to their rapidly retreating backs before looking at Joe. "Any chance you brought anything to take notes?"

Joe pulls out a pad with a constipated look. "Cas," he explains. "He'll want a report, especially if he's not here, and by the way, did you talk to him about _this_?"

"He's busy at the infirmary, wasn't time," Dean explains, reaching almost eagerly for the doorknob. "Strike while the iron's hot and everything."

"You get," Joe says behind him, "we're going to be finding and moving a couch into your room for you to sleep on now, right?"

If he's lucky, yeah. "I'll be fine."

"I'll make a list of what we have to trade for the shittiest couch in town," Joe says thoughtfully. "Something with bugs."

* * *

Following Sudha inside, Castiel turns on the light and blinks slowly.

It's--very much a room.

"Oh," Sudha says in surprised pleasure, and Castiel nods as he takes in the newly-painted yellow walls and repaired tile floor spread with a cheerful rug, the glass in the window obviously just replaced, and the light fixtures gleaming gently in the mellow light. "How did he have the time?"

"I'm not sure," he prevaricates, taking her bag to a repaired dresser and unpacking it absently as he eyes the walls, looking for--he has no idea what. It's a pleasant room of utterly mundane proportions; bed, dresser, side table, a birthing chair in the corner should Sudha choose that support during labor, a regular--if worn--armchair nearby for visitors. 

Castiel finishes unpacking for her just as one of the infirmary volunteers arrives with Rabin at her heels, and he excuses himself and goes to look at the other rooms and finding them only different in furniture and lack of current occupants. 

Returning downstairs, he considers the possibility Nate was simply acting from a generous impulse to make her comfortable (and possibly, some form of solidarity in being targets of the Misborn). It wouldn't be out of character; Tony spoke glowingly of Nate excellent work ethic, and he does seem to enjoy building things. He was very enthusiastic about the new mess, after all.

Using the back stairs, he emerges into the administration section of the infirmary to see Vera and Dolores talking nearby. Waiting politely for them to finish, he sees Dolores looking uncertain, but at Vera's shrug, she nods in resignation and starts back to the ER. 

Turning, Vera sees him and the tired look becomes a smile. "Hey. How--"

"I'm assisting you during the birth due to my former vessels having had progeny, and angels like pregnant women," he recites. Vera's eyebrows rise more with every word. "They're all true. Technically."

Vera cocks her head and considers him thoughtfully. "Not bad."

He nods as she joins him. "I thought you said you would go off duty when--"

"Unexpected development," she interrupts, nose wrinkling. "Carol requested permission to visit Kat at Headquarters."

Perhaps those rooms actually sent him to an alternate universe where that makes sense. "What?"

"Sarah confirmed Kat would like to see her," Vera adds, and Castiel fights the urge to return upstairs and repeat his tour of the rooms in reverse to see if that would help. "Yeah, I know."

He looks at her helplessly. "Are you sure you didn't hallucinate it in a new, unexpected, and frankly bizarre manifestation of the geas, which is still more believable than--that."

Vera sighs, leaning back against the wall. "Thought of that, but if I was, Sarah was with me. I made her repeat it twice just to make sure. I guess it makes sense; I mean, they both loved Andy...."

"Cain and Abel both loved God," Castiel says incredulously. "In case you weren't aware of this, that story did not end well."

Vera rolls her eyes. "Carol's pretty torn up about Andy. From what she's said, I get the feeling she wanted Andy to come with her and--you know, unresolved whatever." Tipping her head back, she gives him a wry look. "She may have feelings for Micah, but between confirmation about her leg and the attack yesterday...if she's not rethinking everything, I'd be really surprised. I mean, compare/contrast Andy and Micah: no contest, you know?"

"Is Carol stable enough?"

"No, and yes," she answers. "I mean--she should be here, letting us prep her to get that leg, but...she's not going to do it." She swallows, mouth starting to tremble. "I--I just finished checking her, and Dolores confirmed; gangrene's set in. Surgery failed."

Looking down the hall, he sees the break room and gently reaches for her arm, leading her to it and is pleased to see it's empty. Closing the door, he reaches for her shoulder in invitation and is relieved when she steps into his arms without hesitation, burying her face against his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he says; it never fails to amaze him how inadequate language can be no matter how many words there are.

"Maybe if we'd done it earlier...." Vera sucks in a breath. "Maybe if I knew what the hell I was _doing_ , if we hadn't waited.... _fuck_."

He nods, stroking her trembling back.

"Not a surgeon," she whispers against the soft flannel covering his shoulder. "Not even a doctor. Fuck, I'm barely a goddamn _nurse_ , what was I thinking, that I could--"

"Do the best you could?" he asks. He doesn’t know enough about modern medicine other than theory to know what is possible and what isn't even in the best of all worlds. Which this is not.

"Best, yeah," she snorts, voice thick. "Maybe if I'd paid attention instead of partying, I--"

"Would have chosen to become a surgeon in anticipation of having to operate on a woman injured by a Hellhound in the infected zone," he interrupts as Vera gulps wetly. "Yes, that makes sense."

"Cas--"

"It doesn't help," he says, tightening his hold. "I know."

After a few moments, she starts to relax and steps back, wiping her eyes impatiently. "Thanks," she says, though for what he's not certain.

"How long does she have?"

"Depends on how fast it spreads," she answers. "But not long. Which could be another reason: I got the feeling she wasn't really close to anyone in that town. Only real hunter there, and she's never been a people person, so...maybe being with us now helps. Not like Micah's around."

He nods uncertainly; Kat's volatility is worrying, but perhaps Vera's correct and having someone who cared for Andy as she did will be of some comfort. "The room beside that of Sarah's team is currently empty." The former residents had the very good sense to move. "Could we outfit it for Carol's use while visiting with Kat?"

"I guess," she replies. "Why?"

"In case she wishes to remain for a few hours or--" He thinks of Dean's misery in their cabin after the fever: illness and boredom were issues, yes, but so was loneliness, even if Dean didn't want to admit it. "She could spend the day at Headquarters and visit with those she doesn't hate. Which are few, yes, but they exist, or so I assume. If the room could be made comfortable for her, with anything she might need....is there any reason she has to stay _here_?"

"Actually, no," Vera answers after a moment of thought. "I can do her checks just as easily--maybe more--at Headquarters; otherwise, all we're doing is observation and Chitaqua can do that. Let me talk to Dolores; if she goes for it, I'll see what Carol says." She smiles up at him. "Good idea."

"Perhaps having people around her will encourage her to change her mind," he offers, seeing by Vera's expression that she's considering the same thing. "Sarah's team is still off-duty for the day; they can be assigned to check on Carol when you're unavailable."

"Alicia could--"

"No," he says flatly, and Vera's eyes widen. "She was--somewhat ambivalent regarding Alicia." 

It belatedly occurs to him that will be two people actively hostile to Alicia less than four doors from her room and struggles not to regret his suggestion.

"Because of Micah?" Vera asks. "Almost forgot, she's Miss I Judge You All For Everything, right. I don't remember those parties very well, but that could be the hangover from the drinking game."

"Drink once every time she disapproves of something you do," Cas agrees. "She was inspiring; I had a list."

"We all did," Vera agrees with a sigh. "Right, let me talk to Dolores, Carol, get her moved--"

"And go to bed," he reminds her. "That's an order, in case that was unclear."

Vera straightens to a vague facsimile of attention. "Yes, sir."

"I'll ask Amanda to enforce it," he says innocently, and has the pleasure of seeing Vera bite her lip, dropping her gaze. "I'm sure she won't have too many objections."

"You're a dick," she says, starting to the door, but he catches the faint smile and is satisfied. "Give me an hour to get things started."

* * *

Dean's single view of Micah (outside the walls, at a distance, under stress, right before the Croat festivities began) gave him the impression of dark hair and weedy; however, if Dean was asked to extrapolate what Micah looked like with that plus 'lawyer', this is pretty much what he would have described. Bland good looks that are done no favors by hard blue eyes that match the set of his mouth, projecting surprised resentment he's not getting his way. 

"Hey, Micah," he says, getting the chair from the corner--as far away from the cot as possible, he notes--and pulling it to the center of the room to sit down. Joe checked him after Naresh's people did (Dean's learned his soldiers really can hide weapons anywhere), but if Micah kept up his training (which looking at him doesn't seem likely) he doesn't need a weapon. Dean does a quick check of the room; one window (tiny), one cot, one other chair (better than those in Naresh's office), and settles down. The last thing on Micah's mind seems to be 'attack Dean'.

"So," Dean says, smiling brightly. "What's going on with you?"

Micah's eyes flickering to the door before resting on Dean again. "Why was I--"

"Suspected involvement with a Croat attack orchestrated by your former team leader, suspected involvement in the murder of members of Chitaqua two years ago under the direction of the team leaders, and suspected involvement in the attempted assassination of Castiel and Vera," Dean recites, watching in satisfaction as Micah goes a very uncomfortable shade of grey. "I got more, but we'll start with what happened outside the walls before the Croat attack; specifically, your warning to Alicia."

Micah's eyes narrow. "She told you--"

"Everything." Micah stiffens. "But we're not talking about Alicia right now. Start with the warning; is Erica collecting on your contract early?"

Micah slumps onto the cot, looking away. "Yes," he answers flatly. "I thought--"

"Your time was up," Dean finishes for him. "Because I was dead. Funny story: a demon showed up at Chitaqua two months ago, and he thought I was dead, too. Interesting coincidence: tell me this was announced on the radio between detergent and car rental specials on the eastern seaboard?"

"I don't know--"

"Or--Jeffrey told you I was dead and Cas was--wait, opening Purgatory and _conquering the world_?" He cocks his head. "Did you really fall for that?"

"Cas set him up." Micah's mouth tightens. "Why? What's going on?"

"How do you know Jeffrey?"

"Dean--"

"How many shots did you take at Cas and Vera in the cabin?" Micah shuts his mouth. "That's how many I'll take before the one that kills you. Give me a number or answers before I stop believing anything you have to say and settle for guessing."

"You're not going to kill me," Micah says, sounding far too confident. "If you had that kind of authority here, I'd be at your headquarters."

"I didn't say I'd do it now," Dean answers. "I'll wait until you leave Ichabod, and I can guarantee they're not gonna want to keep you considering your Chitaqua record."

Micah shrugs. "I'll take my chances."

"Fair enough." Dean gets to his feet, turning to the door. "Town council is meeting--probably in the next hour--about the burnings of those killed outside the walls last night. I'll see if we can get that exile started early. Cas took care of the Croats so can't see why we can't do the penalty now. I'll insist."

Going out, Dean shuts the door, rolling his eyes at Joe's shrug. "How long?"

"Depends on what he wants out of this," Joe answers. "He tried negotiating with Naresh, didn't work." The dark eyes meet his. "Alicia told you about Micah."

It's not a question. "Yeah. Why?"

Joe shrugs again, playing with his pen.

Before Dean can work out what's going on there, there's a triple tap on the door, and through the wood, he hears, "Dean. I want to talk."

He raises his eyebrows at Joe, who frowns: yeah, that was ridiculous.

"He's fucking with you," Joe says quietly. "Don't lost your temper, you'll be fine."

"When have I--"

"Night of the Watch that lives on in everyone's memories, even people who weren't there," Joe says bluntly. "Don't lose your temper. He's a talker, doesn't like too much silence, so wait him out."

"What do you think he wants?"

"I got a couple of theories, but nothing solid," Joe answers. "He'll tell us soon enough, why waste time speculating?" He checks his watch. "Okay, go. Just enough time passed to be insulting."

You can insult people with time: the more you know. When he goes back in, he checks the room as ostentatiously as possible before finally sitting down again.

"This isn't a negotiation," he says. "That's Joe's territory. I'm going to ask questions, you don't answer, I take this to the town council and let the chips fall as they may. Now, let's skip to the part where you tell me about Jeffrey."

Micah nods comfortably. "Got it."

"You summoned Jeffrey." He waits for Micah to nod. "He's the one you made contract with."

"Maybe." Dean starts to get up. "Look, I didn't ask for names when I made the contract, okay? Erica wasn't big on chatting, and if I didn't follow the script, she'd kill me. Literally, right there, she would have shot me in the head."

Honestly, Dean's starting to wonder how she resisted shooting him on principle. "So you just summoned and took the first demon that showed up?"

Micah gives him a patronizing look. "Cas didn't teach us the finer points of summoning, so I used what Erica taught me; I went to a Crossroad and buried the box with my name and added Chitaqua to the paper. I figured that would get me someone relevant."

Dean wants to argue that, but he's not wrong. "Why?"

"Information." Micah sits back, cool eyes evaluative, and Dean wonders suddenly if he was a defense attorney or prosecutor. "I had a--friend--at Chitaqua who kept me updated. I hadn't heard from them in a while, and I wasn't going back to find out what happened."

He can't be sure what Micah wants to imply with 'friend' but he can guess. "How's your leg, by the way? I couldn't tell with you running away from danger and everything, but still got a limp?"

Micah's expression doesn't change. "How is Alicia, anyway? It's been a while since I saw her."

"Twenty four hours, right _before_ you ran away from danger: must feel like forever." Carol used her anger, Micah's using--lawyer powers or something, but point is, they're way too willing to talk and he doesn't like it. "Who was your contact?"

"Privileged information," Micah answers. "This one is a dealbreaker; they helped me out and I'm not fucking them over. Besides, that's not what you want to know about, unless I'm wrong."

He really, really doesn't like being manipulated, especially when he's right. "The contract."

"I thought as much." Micah almost sighs. "Threatened Carol, I suppose. I suppose subtlety is still somewhat beyond you."

Dean grins at him; he's been insulted by the best, and that was _before_ he met Cas and had to create a whole new standard. Interesting he didn't assume Alicia told him, though.

"Jeffrey warned me about your death," Micah says finally, and Dean gives Joe a point for calling it: a talker, awesome. "He also told me what Castiel told him--and I must say, Castiel never struck me as the brightest bulb--"

"You want to try and piss me off, get better at it," Dean advises him, slumping back in his chair. "Come on, you're a smart guy. He was your trainer; you want me to believe you got through training and lived in Chitaqua and didn't catch on to what he was?"

Micah raises an eyebrow but doesn't argue the point. 

"Yesterday, outside the walls," Dean continues. "You warned Alicia; I'll start with 'how you knew'."

"Jeffrey," Micah answers coolly. "He said Erica had risen and first on her list was going to be anyone still under contract. At least, when the barrier protecting Kansas finally let Hellhounds cross it."

"She was already on Crossroads?" Dean does the math; Cas's estimate leaves a lot of time that neither of them can account for. Erica and the team leaders all died in Kansas City, not by Hellhound, and the barrier came up soon after that. Though there's no way to know the exact moment, it's possible it was up before Hellhounds could get her soul. Without reapers, he's honestly not sure _how_ a soul gets anywhere these days. Contract should have pulled her that direction, but come to think, he has no idea how that works without the people around who usually help with that kind of shit.

"Jeffrey didn't mention it, but I assume so," he answers. "I went to find Carol--"

"Got her location from your friend?" Dean interrupts. "I forgot to ask, how _did_ they get messages to you? Pony express?"

"Privileged information," Micah says, sounding annoyed at being interrupted, which is a shame. "She didn't want to leave the state, however, and then we came here. Just outside Ichabod, Carol was attacked by a Hellhound, which seemed to confirm what Jeffrey told me. Then I discovered you were alive, which should mean the contract isn't done--"

"Seriously, you bought Cas was gonna open Purgatory and conquer the world?" Dean asks curiously.

"--but it seems he was correct regarding Erica," Micah finishes, voice hardening as Dean grins at him.

"So wanna tell me when you found out Erica was here?" He watches Micah's face carefully, but nothing; guy might play a decent game of poker after all. "Let me guess: when you were running away from danger and leaving your girlfriend to a Hellhound? Just me, or do you see a pattern here? You plus danger equals--"

"Our group was too far away to help her," he answers coolly, like he's talking about someone he just met and not someone he was living with at least a couple of months. "I saw Erica watching."

"In a different body," Dean points out and sees the muscles in Micah's jaw tense. "Couldn't tell if Jeffrey was the demon you made contract but a glimpse of a woman in a red dress, you just _knew_?"

"I guessed, as should be obvious," Micah says in the fourth most condescending voice he's ever had the privilege to hear (Winchester men take up the top two slots, but Cas is a close third). "For that matter, Erica is--distinctive. She was my team leader--"

"For two weeks."

"--and my wife's," Micah continues impatiently, and Dean's still enjoying being petty as shit when 'wife' penetrates. "She was a frequent visitor to our cabin."

"Erica, always the social butterfly," Dean agrees: Christ, _wife_.

Micah's lips curve in a faint smirk. "Did she neglect to mention that? I understand she was rather--free with her favors after I left Chitaqua. Including with you."

Free with her favors: who _says_ that these days? "Why would she?" he asks, using the exact voice Sam would use on Dad (ages fourteen to eighteen) in a rarely attempted but insanely effective 'bait Dad with maliciously earnest rhetorical questions until he explodes'. (Dean would end up sleeping in the Impala to avoid being accused of not being supportive and/or undermining someone's authority. Fun times.) "Dude, abandoning your wife? We call that 'divorce' in the infected zone."

"She tried--"

"To kill you, yeah, I heard," he interrupts, rolling his eyes. "Me, I'd start asking myself if I really want to talk about this, in case someone--I wonder who?--might want to know what the hell you did that got you a going-away scar. I ask Alicia--one of my team leaders--what do you think she'd tell me?"

"She'd lie," Micah answers, amused. "As she always does. Which I think--correct me if I'm wrong--you know as well as I do. At least now."

"She did it well enough, I'd go for it," Dean tells him. "You, on the other hand, not so much."

Micah's genuine surprise would be fucking hilarious under any other circumstances. "Why would I lie?" Underneath: _why would you believe her over me?_ Like he just can't imagine it was even possible. Honest to God, he'd believe _Erica_ over Micah right now.

"Could be pathological," he points out. "Could be you're trying to distract me, could be Alicia stabbed your ass to the curb and you're a little bitter, could be you're a dick. Pick any and all: I don't give a shit. Back to Erica: you guessed?"

It takes Micah a second to unclench his jaw. "Yes, I guessed."

"And you were outside the walls yesterday...why? Knowing Erica and her pets were hanging around?"

"I wanted to warn Alicia," Micah answers, voice losing some of its smoothness. "You may not believe me--"

"I don't," Dean says reassuringly. "Not a word you say."

"--but Erica was obsessed with her, and Alicia's still my wife," Micah continues, an edge of anger in his voice, and somehow, Dean doesn't think that has anything to do with being interrupted this time. "I wanted to make sure she knew."

"The last time you saw Alicia was two years ago, and she was on Erica's team the entire time," Dean tells him. "Pretty sure she knew Erica better than you did. Try again."

Micah looks dangerously close to losing that lawyer-calm. "You know," he says suddenly. "You're nothing like I remember."

"Funny story," Dean tells him. "I barely remember you at all. Thought your name was 'Mikey': sorry about that. Back to--"

"Outside the walls," Micah interrupts sharply and looks annoyed with himself, blue eyes fastening on Dean resentfully. "I wanted to talk to Alicia, and I knew she wouldn't see me if I tried to visit your headquarters."

"I get what you're saying," he agrees. "Look, it's kind of obscure, but my understanding is that might be a sign to leave them the fuck alone. Future reference."

"She's my wife."

Like someone would talk about their goddamn car or their dog. "She's not anything to you unless she says so," he says quietly, and Micah stiffens, eyes narrowing. "Now, let's start at the top and go over this again: you summoned Jeffrey."

Micah frowns. "Why?"

"For fun," Dean answers with a shrug. "Go."

* * *

Castiel has just enough time to greet Jeremy and Joelle at the front desk when the doors to their headquarters open and the checkpoint teams spill inside, exhausted and looking a combination of relieved and grim.

"Welcome back," he says, scanning for any injuries. "Does anyone need medical attention?"

"We're fine," James says, Lee and Damiel nodding tired agreement. "Alison cleared us to come back early; we had a couple of potential pneumonias going on, one under ten." He seems to brace himself before saying, "Uh, thirty refugees yesterday, twenty-two more showed up before we left, no one on the roads--"

"One question," he interrupts, noting Lee seems to be listing to port and Jane subtly trying to support him despite the foot difference in their height. "Is there anything I need to know that will in any way affect any of us individually, Chitaqua, Ichabod, or the Alliance? In the next twelve hours?"

Damiel frowns, brown eyes unfocused. "Short version: fifty two people, no more in sight, freezing night trading going outside the buses so there wouldn’t be a catalyst event, nothing came near us, came home."

"Excellent," he says approvingly. "Food, shower, and sleep: the debriefing can wait. Consider yourself off-duty for the next eight hours at minimum, unless you wish to attend the burning this evening."

James winces, and Castiel thinks he definitely could have phrased that better. "Are we--uh, Andy...."

"That will be Kat's decision," he answers. "Leave word at the front desk if you wish to attend should she agree and someone will wake you." He nods toward the mess. "Now please feed yourselves and catch up on the gossip as you will. If I'm needed, I'll be in the Situation Room."

"Thanks," James says, reaching to tug Nate toward him as he hooks an arm over Mira's shoulders and herds them both toward the mess. For a moment, he's tempted to call Nate back but decides against it; for one, an exhausted Nate is one who runs into walls (James firmly steers him away when he looks in danger of doing just that, proving his point) and two, he's not entirely sure how to question Nate about perfectly normal rooms.

He looks at the stairs reluctantly, then reminds himself firmly of duty: he needs to speak to Kat (or preferably, Sarah who will tell him what Kat's answer is). Leaving word with Jeremy in case he's needed, he takes the steps two at a time and braces himself as he makes his way to their room. Knocking on the door, he waits patiently until it cracks open, revealing Sarah.

"Just a minute," she says, and at his nod, closes the door again. He hears indistinct voices inside before she comes out again. "Everything okay?"

"Yes," he says. "Is Kat available--we need to make a decision on Andy's remains. Ichabod is burning their dead tonight, and Dean says it's Kat's decision on whether Andy is included."

Sarah nods thoughtfully. "Let me talk to her: wait here."

He doesn't ask why she asked him to wait; the answer comes through the door at considerable volume (and many words) before Sarah gently comes outside and shuts it firmly behind her. "I think she would rather wait--if possible--for our return to Chitaqua."

"I had no idea you were diplomatically inclined." Studying her carefully, he detects the faintest signs of stress around her eyes. Even Sarah's rigid calm is being tested, and that says a great deal. "How is she?"

"She's--very upset," Sarah answers slowly, brow creasing. "I asked Vera if perhaps Ichabod had a counselor available, but Kat adamantly rejected the suggestion."

"In that case, do you think Carol's presence is a good idea?"

"I do, if for no other reason than she requested to see her." She hesitates briefly before meeting Castiel's eyes. "I don't think it would be a good idea for Alicia and her team or Dean to visit at this time, though."

"Is she an active danger to them?"

There are times that Sarah's distance is somewhat disconcerting, but it also makes her one of the few people who doesn't allow emotion to influence her judgement. She thinks carefully before slowly shaking her head. "No, but she's always been prone to reacting without thinking, and now she's not thinking at all. It's better for all parties concerned to be separate for the time being."

"How long is your shift with her?"

"Drew and I have been with her for the last two hours," she answers. "Phil and Amanda are taking our place in two hours."

"Vera is asking Dolores to have Carol brought here," he says, noting Sarah's almost indiscernible relaxation and making an executive decision. "When she arrives, you, Drew, and Phil are officially off-duty until dawn; I'll arrange that Kat and Carol have someone with them while she's here. If you need something to do, go to the Volunteer Center, but I'd prefer you take some time for yourselves, and I hope you feel the same."

"Patrol--" she starts.

"Alison ordered the gates shut and no one, including patrol, is allowed outside until--I assume the emergency ends," he tells her. "Right now, the combined patrol is taking the opportunity to rest and familiarize the volunteers with the wall and Ichabod's defenses. When we are needed, we'll be called, but Manuel and Teresa feel--and I agree--that the Alliance's primary patrol members and Chitaqua should save ourselves for when our skills are going to be needed to do what most of those here cannot. Other than designated shifts on the wall and with Volunteer Services, it is expected all members of Chitaqua will take sufficient time to eat and rest. The barrier will fall in two days, and unless we are ridiculously fortunate, we'll be needed then."

She considers that before nodding, and Castiel adds Sarah to the list of people that Dean has taught to think about orders, not simply listen and obey.

"I would like to go down to the training field for a couple of hours," Sarah admits, like she's confessing an embarrassing social disease. "I haven't had an opportunity to train for the last few days, and we could use some relaxation."

That does sound relaxing; he makes a mental note to spend a little time today longing for a few hours of shooting targets and attacking dummies--or Amanda--since he doubts he'll have time for the reality. 

"I'll be in the Situation Room," he says. "Report before you leave, and if anyone else wishes to go with you, take them."

"I will," she says, and he correctly interprets her almost-expression as anticipatory and returns back downstairs, satisfied with his work as a commander.

When he arrives in the Situation Room, he finds Haruhi helping Derek with the boxes (excellent progress) while Victoria works on the laptop enthusiastically. Seeing him enter, Haruhi gets up with a smile. "Hey, what's up?"

"The checkpoint teams returned and are in need of news, food, and rest, the former two they're acquiring in the mess." He looks around the room. "Where's Rosario?"

"Laundry," Haruhi answers. "She volunteered when Vicky threatened to teach her Excel and kind of ran for it."

"Hey," Victoria says without looking up. 

"With--Freddy, I think?" Haruhi continues, frowning. "Brown hair, kind of cute, wears the thickest glasses I've ever seen."

"Frederick," he says, nodding. "He's slightly nearsighted, but he only uses those for engine repair; the top half of the lens is for magnification."

"That would explain the faint aroma of motor oil," she says, nodding. "And the contents of his laundry basket. Oh, he told me to tell you that he's available, so if you need him, he's doing laundry for basically everyone. Including yours and Dean's, and he told me to tell you he hopes that's okay, but he got word Alison's ordering water rationing across the board and it may be our last chance for clean clothes."

Castiel thinks about that and winces. "How much rationing?"

"Everything but drinking water," she says with a sigh. "Before you ask, I know nothing of anything to do with toilets or pipes, but you know all those holes from the buildings that are now Wall?" He nods. "At least a few were repurposed for emergency waste disposal, so...."

"We're at latrines?" he asks and wishes he didn't have to.

"With these kinds of numbers, that or the equivalent." She winces. "Luckily, we've had to deal with it a few times when the waste plant kind of--broke--so we know how to avoid poisoning ourselves, but--Cas, I don't have details and I don't want them, please don’t make me go get them. Some things should remain a mystery to the common man."

"Done," he agrees reluctantly; he'd like not to know either, but he's probably going to need to find out. "Is there anything else?"

"God I hope not," Haruhi answers as he joins Victoria when she motions for him to look at something on the screen. "Need me to do anything?" 

"I do. Very good," he says approvingly to Victoria. "Lee, James, and Damiel are to be kept off the duty roster until hopefully morning, so fit them in there as you will. Haruhi, I need you to find Amanda and ask her to come here; we'll be hosting Carol today, and I need to discover what it will cost me for her to act as escort for Carol and Kat without worrying about revenge at some unspecified time."

Haruhi cocks her head, thinking. "Carol...former Chitaqua, Andy's ex, did I get it right?"

"You did," he confirms with a smile. "Excellent gossip skills."

"I try," she says, smiling back. "If you don't have anything else for me, I can hang with Amanda today, give her some support."

"I think she's appreciate it." Which reminds him; he should speak to Alicia if Carol is going to be in residence. "Thank you."

"I think she's with Manuel and Teresa helping get everyone familiar with the Wall," she says. "On my way back, you want me to grab you some coffee?"

"Yes, please," he says, then looks around the room and realizes something's missing. "Where's Dean?"

"Dunno," she answers as she starts toward the door. "Kamal came by to talk to him and they left. Maybe they left word up front?"

* * *

At the second one hour check, they break for lunch. Dean and Joe settle in an empty room, Joe glaring at him over really good beef-rice-green-vegetable casserole and tortillas. "What?"

"Anything else you forgot to mention?" Joe asks, tearing off a bite of tortilla like he's rending Dean's flesh or something. "Just curious."

"Alicia's business," he says through a mouthful just to see Joe wince (he doesn't, the fucker). 

"You really want to go with that?"

Yeah, he didn't think that'd work. "Joe, I haven't even told Cas yet. I wanted to at least talk to Micah before dropping 'hey, found one of your assassins, how about that?' on him. Especially with everything else going on."

Joe's glare continues for a whole five seconds before he sighs, nodding. "Okay, give you that one."

Dean uses the next two bites to ignore he still has no idea how to tell Cas, and now also has to explain why he didn't tell him before.

"So how consistent was he from first rendition to third?" he asks Joe curiously, glancing at the closed notebook.

"Well within margin, especially since he only practiced for one time," Joe answers, glancing at it as well. "Matches Carol, but no surprise there. I'd really like to know how hospital staff missed him visiting her before the surgery, though. Especially for long enough to get their stories straight."

"A lot of ways, especially if Carol was doing the hostile thing to minimize anything but necessary medical check-ins," he answers. "Any word on the idiots two?"

"Nope. Micah told Naresh they didn't want to deal with guilt by association or something," Joe says, looking annoyed. "Which I kind of believe. What I'm curious about now is if they're under contract, too."

"Or if they know Micah is." Dean plays with his fork for a moment. "Okay, I gotta know; why does everyone hate him but Carol? Gonna level with you; I barely remember the guy."

"It helps if you aren't his distant, mostly-absent leader and have to actually interact with him," Joe retorts. "A lot of the ones from the first class were dicks, but Micah...he was used to thinking he was the smartest guy in the room and that meaning something." Joe takes another bite, shaking his head. "Honest to God, Dean, I never would have guessed Alicia and Micah were married."

"They were living together," Dean says, scraping the remaining casserole into a tortilla and rolling it up. This would be awesome with cheese, which is officially now restricted to the twelve and under set. "What difference does it make?"

"Not the same thing," he argues. "There's Sheila and Mike living together, all weirdly adorable mitten-making shenanigans--or you and Cas, just weird but you do you--"

"You're a real comedian," Dean retorts, taking a bite and finding it goddamn fantastic. He's totally learning to make tortillas.

"Just saying, when you're together, it shows. Alicia and Micah lived in the same cabin but it wasn't _together_ , you get what I’m saying?" Actually, he kind of does. "Though yeah, sex was happening I guess, though gonna tell you, I'm pretending it was chaste."

Dean finishes chewing his late bite before saying casually, "What was Alicia like back then? I don't really remember much except when she was with Erica's team."

"Honestly? I don't remember, either," Joe answers. "I mean, she was on missions with Erica a lot, but she might as well have been invisible. Didn't really get to know her until after training, when Cas started his night classes."

"How many from the first class showed up those anyway?"

"Just Risa, Joan--let me think--Kellie, and Ray at first," he answers, face screwing up in a frown. "No surprises there: Risa was intense, always wanting to get better, and Joan had two very good reasons to want to hang out and watch certain people sweat."

"Cas and Amanda," Dean says, remembering what Cas told him about Amanda getting Joan to steal Vicodin for her. "Really?"

"Off and on for about a year; it was kind of a weird symmetry going on there, no idea," Joe says, looking baffled. "Then again, not so strange--nothing, and I mean _nothing_ fazed her, and in training or after missions, Cas and Amanda took a while to come down. Guess the two afterparties worked for her; talk about living the dream." He gives Dean a saccharine smile. "You'd know better than I do, I guess."

Dean rolls his eyes. "And Alicia?"

"Not sure," he answers, scraping his plate clean and retrieving the last tortilla; Dean has yet to see any food thrown away by any member of Chitaqua. "I'm not kidding about Alicia being invisible. It wasn't until learning the meaning of fear of sharp objects when I saw Cas putting her through one of the master dances one day that I even remembered she existed, and she was on Erica's team. I'd already been to the border twice by then with them as escort."

"Then why did you recruit her to help you out?" Joe makes a face. "She figured it out. Of course she did."

"She did," Joe agrees wryly. "Third trip, no less." 

"She ever tell you how she found out?"

"Oh yeah. Apparently, pattern of the cabins I visited one to three days before I left, how long I stayed--both before I left and after I came back--the notebook I had with me only at those times, and why at the border, one of the random techs--just that one--always looked really happy to see me even though I did all my business with the station manager."

"That's it?"

"No," Joe answers with a grin. "That's just what she'd admit." After stacking their empty plates together on the tray, he faces Dean, abruptly serious. "I don't like this."

"Wanna be more specific?"

"Carol and Micah being incredibly forthcoming during questioning," he says, picking up the notebook. "The missing idiots two. How easy we found Micah."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Easy?"

"We got roughly thirty-five square miles inside the walls--"

"Holy _shit_. Really?"

"Math doesn't lie, usually," Joe answers. "There's a lot of places to hide and we don't have a lot of people on this. Yes, he could be stupid or have really bad luck, but what are the chances?"

It's not that Joe doesn't have a point; it's that their list of shit happening is too long already. One simple thing, just one, that's all he asks. "Or," he says, because he's gotta try, "he wants us to protect him. Come on, this is a guy who left his girlfriend to almost be eaten by a Hellhound. And Carol's committed: she was okay with the almost-eaten part!"

Joe makes a face. "See, I like that too much."

"How about this," Dean says. "We split the difference; see if Naresh will release him to us and we'll store him in Headquarters. If it's about protection--well, we do that." They do that, he reminds himself firmly: saving people, helping things, even Micah. "If it's a threat to Ichabod or whatever, he's contained."

"Either way, he's our problem," Joe says in gloomy triumph. "Oh yeah, loving this."

They both startle at a knock to the door, and at Joe's "Yeah, come in," Lalitha peers in.

"Prisoner rights have been achieved and he only complained about the food three times," she says, leaning in the doorway. "Also, he would like me to tell you to please hurry."

"What, he's got another appointment?" Dean asks, giving Joe a wry look. "Thanks, Lalitha."

"Five minutes," she warns him. "Rights of prisoners doesn't include defenestrating them, and I'd hate to become a criminal."

When the door closes, Dean gets to his feet. "Anything you want me to add this time?"

"Same script," Joe answers, paging through his notes before motioning Dean over. "For our Item #2, since I know you're going to ask. Just some suggestions."

Nodding, he reads through the notes carefully. "Yeah, I got all that." Straightening, he makes himself look normal. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, one thing," Joe says, standing up and looking down at him. "It wasn't your fault. Nothing he says can change that."

"Right," he agrees. "Can do."

* * *

Castiel knocks twice for courtesy and waits for five seconds before opening the door to reveal a darkened room. "Alicia? Matt?" He wonders if he should have seen to Alicia and her team sooner; Vera was correct that Alicia requires distraction.

"I'm here," her voice says tiredly, and Castiel flips on the light to see Alicia pushing herself up from her sleeping bag. In the harsh fluorescent illumination, she looks almost haggard, dark hair loose around her face as she looks up at him from behind unreadable eyes. "Sorry, I--"

"You were sitting in the dark thinking depressing thoughts," he says, leaning against the doorway and then reconsidering and closing the door behind him. "You told me I wasn't supposed to do that, for it led to melancholia and rethinking your life and your choices and that is a terrible idea."

Shifting to a cross-legged position, she smiles faintly. "I did, yeah."

"Then you said I needed a distraction and provided it yourself," he adds, joining her on the other side of the sleeping bag. "You're very good at that."

She turns to face him, and this close, he can see the grey smudges beneath her eyes, rims reddened. "I am very good at distraction. Sometimes, I think that's all I do; distract myself. Thinking, terrible idea, who thought of that?"

He tilts his head at the sight of her mouth starting to tremble. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

She lowers her head, dark hair concealing her face. "Any chance you can do a one-off in time-travel? There's this grocery store, I was twenty-three--Trader Joe's, steel cut oatmeal--and I need to decide not to try it. Totally not worth it."

Castiel wonders what difference 'steel cut' makes with oatmeal. "Was it bad?"

"I don't even like oatmeal," she says, voice quivering. "I can't even remember why I wanted it. I would have lived happy without it; it was also really bland."

Shifting closer, he reaches to tilt up her face and sees the track of tears. "Alicia?"

"I'm fine," she lies dramatically, wiping her eyes. "Tired, Andy, my life and my choices, you know?"

"Where are Jody and Matt?" He is less than impressed with them if they would leave their team leader in this state without warning someone they'd be absent. 

"Volunteer Services." She must see something in his expression, because she shakes her head. "We needed some time apart, it was getting....you know, people? Less of them would be a good thing. Geas, grief, antisocialism....tired?"

"Which one?"

"Could be any of them." She takes a deep breath and straightens. "Uh. So--uh, anything you need?"

There's no way to ease into the subject. "Has Dean talked to you?"

She stiffens, shoulders pulling back though she doesn't move, breath quickening; he's reminded of how an prey animal reacts when in the presence of a predator. She'd been like that in training as well, but that was true of most of the class; humans are predators, but instinct is instinct. It's one of the most difficult parts of training to correct it; if a hunter freezes, it's because the situation calls for it, not because they can't move.

"No," she says finally. "Not since--uh. Why?"

It seems his upcoming talk with Dean will have multiple subjects. "We spoke to Carol, and it seems--she's involved with Micah. Among other things." The 'other things' are still limited, but of all people, he feels Alicia should know; another thing to discuss with Dean. The list grows.

Alicia stares at him, blue eyes blank, before there's a flash of horror, there and gone. "She's...." She looks at the door, then at him. "I need to talk to her, where is she--"

"No." Reaching out, he grabs her arm before she can get to her feet and feels her freeze again; that's twice. "Sit down."

She drops back down automatically, and slowly, carefully relaxes each muscle as Kamal taught them.

"She--was very hostile," he starts, unwilling to so much as consider repeating what he heard. "I doubt she wants to see you, and I personally do not want you to much as share the same floor with her."

Alicia frowns. "The same floor?"

"Kat wants to see her, I suppose regarding Andy," he says, and Alicia's lips part before she looks away. "Alicia?"

Alicia doesn't respond for a long time. "What did Carol tell you?"

"I forgot."

"My feelings won't get hurt, promise," she says with a terrible attempt at casual. "Was there anything specific she said?"

He briefly considers not answering, but he can't think of a good reason to deny her request other than his own feelings, and that's not a good reason. "From Carol, the expected: disapproval of sex. Unless she does it, of course."

"That's standard," Alicia agrees with a flicker of amusement. "Anything else?"

"She was offended on Micah's behalf by what happened between you before he left the camp," he says diplomatically (Micah's thigh and her knife coming in contact with bloody results). "More than I think could possibly be justified under the circumstances." He watches her face carefully. "Grief can make people--irrational, and I feel perhaps it would be best for all parties to be...separated."

She frowns. "Separated?"

"Far apart," he agrees. "There's an empty room on the third floor--"

"Not the marble office of wrong."

"No," he assures her. "Next door to it. Joseph thinks it was a supply room of some kind. It's very pleasant and the window is very meticulously taped. I think you and your team would be more comfortable there."

She nods quickly. "It'll bother them having me this close--"

"I really don't care if it bothers them," he says honestly. "While I am currently neutral on Kat, as it is wrong to judge those who are grieving, I disliked Carol before and on renewing the acquaintance have discovered new and untapped reservoirs of dislike. I see no need for you to be exposed to their hostility, and so I'm using my power as Chitaqua's second in command to move you to somewhere more congenial, which is anywhere they are not."

Alicia stares at him wordlessly. 

"Nepotism," he explains. "Very useful."

"Oh." She swallows, face crumpling suddenly before she looks away. "Okay, yeah. I can--we'll do that. Uh, where again--"

"I'll show you," he tells her, getting to his feet and looking around the room. "Let's start packing, shall we?"

* * *

Fourth repetition, same as the first three (though faster), but then again, that might be Dean; Micah just looks patient, like he could wait all day for Dean to ask. 

So he does. 

"Tell me about the contract," he says, ignoring Micah's there-and-gone smirk. With an effort, he reminds himself of Joe's advice on how to start. 

"Start with the terms."

"Erica and Luke told me the terms," Micah answers, "We needed to be better so we could win, and he promised that he could make it happen. Be the best hunters. Which I'm sure Carol told you."

"Yeah, she followed the script fine, don't worry," Dean assures him and sees Micah's lips tighten in surprise; lawyer, used to thinking he's the smartest guy in the room, got it. Dean may not be all that smart, but honest to God, two people so eager to spill their secrets is kind of a gimme. "Just almost didn't believe it. Dude, you're a lawyer; don't tell me you actually _signed_."

"The terms were defined by 'hunter'; anything we could do would only affect the supernatural when we were hunting," he answers stiffly. "Erica decided the terms. Unfortunately, she didn't consult someone competent before doing it, so she wrote the script for everyone to match hers. Trust me, I could have done better."

Oh yeah, outsmarting a demon: he'd love to see Micah try. "Got any details or did you just sign on the dotted line like a good like future murderer?"

"Strength, speed, accuracy with any weapon, and automatic probability manipulation when we were hunting," he answers, combining 'bored' with 'condescending'. "That means--"

"You got lucky in fights," Dean finishes for him, thinking about Cas's lesson on probability and beings on the mortal plane. "There were restrictions; did you notice that part or just figure demons made contracts because they're _nice_? This is _fun_ for them, you know that, right? If they can fuck you over before they take you to Hell, they'll do it. You're lucky they went with spirit and your superpower isn't a really cool ability to bring down deer and lure rabbits to you with the power of your hunger." Though he can't lie, holy shit would that be useful right now.

Give him credit, Micah simply looks at him, but come on, it's not like Dean can't guess how this went down.

"None of you knew," Dean confirms. "Not until you tried to use your hunter superpowers on a human." Micah starts, like he didn't expect Dean to figure out the goddamn obvious. "And?"

"And what?"

"Humans who do magic, prophets, psychics, clairvoyants...." Micah's expression doesn't change. "Does it work on them?"

"I don't know," he replies, but Dean hears the lie; he does know. Because one of them tested that, too, Jesus Christ. "I was only on patrol a few weeks and went on three missions before I left. It's not as if I had opportunity to test everything myself."

Fair enough. "Do you remember the script for the deal?" Micah nods. "I want you to write it down, full and complete. Now now though; let's talk about the time limit."

"Ten years or your death," Micah answers. "With a reversion clause: contract would be canceled if we beat Lucifer before the ten year limit. That much, she got right."

Dean doesn't so much as shift position: a reversion clause. That's unexpected. "Whose idea was it?"

"Erica's, I think," Micah answers, looking for all the world like he's in a courtroom instead of sitting on a sagging cot. "From what I heard, Luke was considering it already, however. He and Erica went together to the Crossroads the first time. They waited for Stanley and Terry to agree before telling them the rest of the plan."

Yeah, the best part. "They wanted to get the entire camp in on this."

"That was the idea," Micah agrees. "From what I understand, they first approached those they thought were certain to agree, then started expanding, but I can't tell you more than that."

"Who took the deal?"

"I don't know." Micah shrugs at his disbelieving look. "The team leaders wouldn't tell us much--they didn't trust us not to talk. They decided who was asked to go, and frankly, I didn't want to know or care. I just wanted that gun not to be pointed at my head."

"Any idea how many were killed because they wouldn't sign?"

"No, but if they died on patrol, there's a good chance that was why."

"And they assumed no one would notice the casualty count?" he asks incredulously and knows it's a mistake when Micah's eyebrows jump, mouth curving in a faint smile.

"You didn't," he answers. "So it didn't matter who else did; it wasn't as if anyone would have the nerve to accuse your lieutenants of murder." 

"When did that start?"

"I don't know, but probably soon after training was complete." That matches this Dean's journal, the earliest deaths on patrol that became a pattern over the next month and--though no way to tell, since he wasn't big on commentary--the reason Dean wanted to recruit again. "They took me just before Castiel started training the second class. They thought you were going to let the team leaders handle the training and wanted as many of the first class as possible finished first. When they found out Cas agreed to do it…." 

"They were pissed?" Dean asks. "Why?"

"Erica wasn't very forthcoming on that," Micah says slowly, frowning. "It wasn't just that, though; they didn't like the new recruits."

Huh. "What did they do to piss Erica and company off?"

"Nothing, as far as I know. Even before you and Cas got back, they watched them all the time. When Cas started working with them, one of us was assigned to watch them on the field, tell them everything that happened. It was just training," he adds, sounding baffled. "I still don't know what they were looking for."

Cas said this Dean didn't observe training; the team leaders, however, did, and there might have been a reason for that. "Why'd they go after Cas? Don't try to tell me it was all about Vera."

"I wasn't going to," Micah says, unruffled. "I don't know what set them off. I told them it was a bad idea, but the team leaders weren't listening."

Dean blinks slowly enough to convey 'bullshit'. "You told them not to kill Cas? Because it was...wrong?"

"It was badly planned, badly timed, and stupid to do it in the camp," Micah answers. "And ridiculously obvious: most of the camp was aware something was going to happen that night, and there was no possible way they could hide what happened from you. Best case scenario, we'd be thrown out of Chitaqua--"

"That was never an option," Dean interrupts pleasantly and Micah flinches: good. "Why not do it in the field; at least then they could try and claim accidental shooting or something."

"They did," Micah answers, and Dean's breath catches in his throat. "At least, Erica and Luke claimed they tried. They said they couldn't get a clean shot when Cas was fighting--and he _was_ fast--and he was almost always with you. Erica didn't think you would take it well if you saw Cas hit right beside you and might not wait for anyone to put up a defense."

"Got that right." His entire right hand feels like it's one giant, massive cramp; even trying to move his fingers hurts.

"In all honesty," Micah continues thoughtfully, like they're discussing today's lunch menu, "I think they were too afraid to try. Castiel in Chitaqua was someone who was constantly stoned and drank his weight in alcohol daily; Castiel in the field was--nothing like that."

Not a surprise at all. "And they wanted numbers."

"They said it was to assure everyone would have equal blame and therefore not talk, but knowing Erica, she wanted as many guns trained on Cas's cabin as possible," Micah agrees. "They were very confident once they had enough people to cover all possible angles of attack."

"How'd it go down?"

Micah shifts on the cot before settling again. "The day after Debra died, Erica gave us our instructions," he starts. "Four hours after dusk the next night, we were to go to our assigned positions outside Castiel's cabin and wait for their signal. Then we were to shoot until we ran out of bullets."

Dean hears himself say, "Tell me about the next day. How'd it feel spending a day waiting to become an assassin?"

Micah is quiet for a long moment. "Among the longest of my life."

Cas said: _Rome was built and destroyed an hour after dawn and there were still more to come. It's forever in here._

"The team leaders called for a stand-down while you were out of the camp," Micah says, voice distant. "They didn't even attempt to pretend they weren't waiting for something; they watched Castiel all day. We all did; they told us to."

 _All around the fence_ , Cas told him. _Vera was very clumsy, Joseph fell over Kamal's feet. Amanda nearly broke her wrist._

"The new recruits..." Micah licks his lips. "They knew somehow. You ever have someone look at you like--" He cuts himself off with a faint grimace. "Even Erica-- she knew she might have to kill all of them to keep them from talking, but she and Terry...they said they had work to do, but I think they couldn't stand how the recruits looked at them. You wouldn't think so, would you? But it bothered her. Castiel though....he didn't look at them at all. It was like--like they weren't even there."

That must have burned; your victim doesn't even think you're worth watching.

"About midmorning," he says suddenly, "Vera and Amanda went back to their cabin, Erica and I were--I could hear her crying. Thin walls." Dean closes his eyes. "Ten, maybe fifteen minutes, they come back out, and--she looked right at us, and just--went right back to the field."

Opening his eyes, he nods. "What did you expect her to do?"

"Cut and run," he answers in surprise. "If she'd left for good, they probably would have let her and concentrated on Cas. She had two days; all she had to do was steal a jeep and go. All of them knew, they had all day to get out of there, but they--it didn't make sense."

"It wouldn't, to you," Dean says softly, and Micah looks away. "Keep going."

"When training was over, they all came back together, then--I didn't hear anything, but everyone just stopped. And Vera and Castiel went to his cabin." Micah pauses for a long moment. "And I went home to wait."

The day was forever, but it was nothing to the countdown starting at dusk. He can't even imagine what that was like. "Keep going."

"Four hours after dusk, we got into position," Micah says. "I had the east window."

That would be the place in the cabin that can't keep a chair in front of it: it's always moved to the center point of the living room. 

"I could hear them talking--no idea what--and then I see Vera come to the window and open it. Just stood there," he whispers. "Like she was daring us to do it."

She was.

"Then we got the signal and started firing, just like Castiel taught us," Micah continues. "Until my clip was empty. Erica and Stan were supposed to check, but no one moved, and over the ringing, I--I heard Castiel laughing." He looks at Dean, and after all this time, just the memory seems to unnerve him. "You could hear it all over the camp. I ran, didn't look back, and I wasn't the only one."

He grins at Micah maliciously. "No one thought of that, huh? What would happen if they failed?"

Micah doesn't answer, face carefully expressionless.

"They ever talk about how that could possibly have happened?" Dean continues. "Twenty, thirty guns--"

"Double that at least," Micah interrupts, and Dean marks that down for later thought. "And no, they didn't. They tried to pretend like it--like it didn't even happen. For all of a day," he adds with a flicker of malice. "Then Luke's dead and--I don't think any of them ever stopped waiting for Castiel's next bullet."

Fuck his life, he's finding common ground with Micah. "At least they stuck around," he says. "Couldn't live with being a potential assassin?"

"Dean, I didn't want to--"

"You still did it."

Micah sits back, cocking his head in genuine surprise. "You think I would have signed that contract without a gun to my head?" he asks. "I didn't want to be part of Erica's crusade, and I sure as hell wasn't interested in helping kill two people I barely knew, but it was them or me. Erica and the others were going after them whether I said yes or no; 'yes' meant I got to live."

"You could have left, like you think Vera should have."

"And go where?" Micah demands. "Dean, I didn't want to do it, but it's not like I had a choice."

"You had a choice." He's gotta get of here, think about this. "And this interview's over--"

"I'm requesting Chitaqua's assistance," Micah says deliberately. "To protect my life from Hellhounds, due to a contract I was forced to make at gunpoint by your team leaders."

"I'm alive," Dean points out. "Contract's not over, so you got, what, eight years--"

"Erica's here, and she's going to kill me even if it's not."

"She's Crossroads," Dean answers. "They can't do that; those are the rules."

"I was a professional at interpreting 'rules'," Micah retorts. "You know as well as I do there's always a way around it, and if she hasn't discovered it yet, she'll make something up."

"Give you that," Dean agrees. "Still haven't told me why I should do shit for you."

"It's your mandate, or so I was taught," Micah says coolly. "More practically, unless you plan to have me thrown outside the walls--which is possible but unlikely--I'm a danger to anyone and everyone around me. It's Chitaqua or many, many innocent civilian lives: you decide."

Dean stares at him wordlessly.

"That's survival, Dean," Micah says, sitting back. "I'll wait."

* * *

Dean waits for Joe to fetch Micah's guards--who look a little forlorn--before jerking his head toward the empty room they were using earlier. "Got everything?" he asks.

"Got it," Joe agrees, giving him the notebook that is now pretty well filled and utterly unreadable even when it's English (he thinks). He's still working out if that's a letter or a stick figure when Joe abruptly says, "You get he's pissed at her, right?"

He jerks his gaze from the maybe-letter 'A'. "What?"

"He said 'us'," Joe says. "He was trying to imply Alicia was involved."

Dean tightens his grip on the notebook. "Joe, he said a lot of shit--"

"Yeah, and going down, he's gonna take her with him," Joe interrupts urgently. "She wasn't part of it, Dean."

"You didn't even remember her before she started coming to night school," Dean says, wondering how on earth he can sound so normal. "I get it, everyone's friends now, but come on. Anyone could have been there."

"Anyone, yeah, but not her." Joe leans carefully against the card table. "Dean, I didn't know her then, but I got to know her after, and cold blooded murderer she is not."

The memory of Alicia with that knife outside Ichabod, waiting for Micah to get into range, crosses his mind; there was nothing about the way she held herself that said 'warning' or 'flesh wound'. She meant to kill him, and fuck knows she had a damn good reason not to want him to talk to anyone. The only thing he can't figure out is how the fuck she planned to explain cold-blooded murder in front of a bunch of volunteer civilians after the fact; if she wanted Micah dead, she knew exactly where he was and he doesn't doubt she could get the job done without anyone knowing a thing.

"Dean--"

"Dude, come on," he hears himself say instead of telling Joe that Micah didn't need to imply shit. "You're telling me-- _me_ \--not to trust the honesty of a guy who left his girlfriend to die by Hellhound and that's not the first or last of his greatest hits?"

Joe hesitates, searching his face, then relaxes. "Right. So are we going to help him?"

From his expression, he already knows the answer and likes it about as much as Dean does. 

"I need to meet with the team leaders," he says evasively. "Update them on what we know, have them talk to their teams--" He stops at Joe's startled look. "What?"

"You're going to tell them...what?"

"Everything." He shrugs, squinting down at the notebook. "Though dude, I'm gonna need this typed up, what language is this anyway?"

"Dean--"

"All of it," Dean interrupts, meeting Joe's eyes. "What the team leaders were really doing, the contract, the deaths--everything. Sins of omission, yeah, but this is one fuck of an omission; all this was going on right under my nose and I didn't see it. They were my team leaders, and they were goddamn terrorists selling souls at the point of a gun in my own camp. I'm not going to pretend it was anything but exactly what it was, and everyone deserves to know exactly what happened and why."

Joe crosses his arms, brown eyes thoughtful. "You sure about this?"

"Yeah." He closes the notebook with a snap. "Some secrets gotta be kept, but this? This isn't one of them." Joe's expression doesn't change. "You think it's a bad idea?"

"No," he answers, mouth quirking in an odd smile. "So, you want to keep that?"

"What, your notes? That I can't read?"

"Yeah," he says slowly, like Dean's not paying attention. "For Cas? He can read them just fine. Otherwise, you won't be sleeping on the couch tonight, but probably on the balcony, you get that, right? You'll be lucky to get a blanket."

Dean wants to tell him he's wrong, but that would be a lie. "Yeah," he agrees, clutching the notebook against his chest. "I'll do that, thanks."

* * *

Dean arrives back at Headquarters not sure how he feels or if he feels anything at all. All that speculation about what happened that night, now he knows from outside that cabin and still has what feels like more questions than he had before.

When he gets to the Situation Room, Cas is alone, sitting on the couch with his laptop on a chair, facing the door and typing steadily like there's nothing more important than the goddamn patrol schedule. Okay, then.

He closes the door behind him and turns the lock. "Okay, let me explain, okay?"

Cas continues typing for a few ostentatious moments before pausing, saving, and slowly closing the lid of the laptop to focus infinite attention on Dean. "All right."

Dean didn't prepare a speech (why not?), but one forms for him; it's reasonable, almost believable, and he may even get off light (maybe a bug-free couch). Instead, he says, "I couldn't let you in that room with him."

Cas raises an eyebrow to express 'bullshit'. "I appreciate your concern for my safety from an unarmed human prisoner--"

"He was at the cabin," Dean blurts out and Cas freezes. "Fuck, that wasn't...." He looks around the Situation Room and realizes they can't do this here. "Joe's up front; I'll leave him to watch the kids. Come on."

Joe agrees with suspicious alacrity, murmuring "Want me to get a team looking for a couch?" in a way that's both sarcastic and depressingly sincere. Following Cas up the spiral stairs, he faces the eternal length of the hall to be traversed in dead silence and wonders how the hell this is his life. Then come stairs and another hall: this is gonna be great.

Then he notices a lot of activity going on down the other hall, and what looks like Carol in a wheelchair. "Why is Carol here?" Dean asks, craning his neck to note Vera directing several people carrying what looks like medical equipment. "What's going on?"

"Kat wants to see her, so I ordered the empty room beside her room outfitted for Carol's comfort," Cas says. "Dolores approved it as long as she returns to the infirmary tonight. Under the circumstances, I didn't think you'd have any objections."

Any other time, Dean might start to ask why the hell they're doing anything for Carol, but that day is not today. Under the circumstances, that is. "Kat asked to see her?" he asks instead.

"Apparently." As they reach the door to the back stairs, Cas hesitates before reaching for the handle, tensing as they go inside, and while he doesn't exactly run up them, there's no time for conversation until they emerge into the hall on the third floor. 

Dean opens his mouth to ask about that, then sees Alicia on the other side of the creepy marble office and stops short, door swinging closed behind them with a thump. "What's she doing here?"

Cas stops a few steps away, turning to look at him in surprise. "I moved her team up here."

"Why?"

"I didn't want her near Kat or Carol," Cas answers shortly. "Is something wrong?"

Opening the door to what is apparently her new room, Alicia glances down the hall and stills as she sees him. Reaching for Cas's arm, Dean turns him toward their room, making himself not look back and wondering what the fuck he's supposed to do now.

Once their door closes behind them, Dean shoves Joe's notebook at Cas. "Here," he says. "Whole thing right here, didn't miss a thing. Hey, you want some coffee with that?"

Cas looks from the notebook to Dean and nods warily. "Yes, thank you."

"Awesome," he says, opening the door again. "Be right back."

* * *

He doesn't bother knocking; from Alicia's expression and the way she's sitting on a newly unrolled sleeping bag, she was expecting him. What she expects him to do is a mystery; he kind of wishes he could ask, because fuck if he knows.

He would have thrown Cyn out on her ass so fast she would've been seeing stars and asked no questions of Amanda if she disappeared for a couple of days; Micah, he would cheerfully toss outside Ichabod's walls and hope for the worst; sure, it helps they're both dicks and seem to actively work to piss him off, but that shouldn't matter. Attempted murder is murder; it shouldn't fucking matter if he likes the person who did it.

"Did you tell him?" Dean demands roughly, shutting the door behind him. It's a stupid question; he's pretty sure that Cas might have mentioned that at some point already. And probably not arranged to move her up here.

She shakes her head, tucking her knees against her chest in a painful echo of Cas, and he just stops himself from telling her to sit a different way. It's not helping.

"Have you told anyone else?"

"No," she answers tonelessly. For a bitter, painfully honest moment, he wishes she hadn't told him, that she'd taken it to her grave.

Dean tries to flex his right hand and regrets it; the shock of pain arrows up to his shoulder. "You don't go anywhere near Cas--" Even he knows that's stupid.

"I didn't," she interrupts. "He came by--to check on me, I guess--told me Carol was here and next thing I know, he's moving me up here. So I wouldn't have to be exposed to their hostility only a few rooms away," she adds, and yeah, he does get the irony, thanks.

"I talked to your husband." Her expression doesn't change. "Yesterday, before the Croats attacked, you were going to kill him."

"Yeah," she says simply, but something dangerous flickers in the blue eyes. "I was."

He almost asks why _then_ and not say, when he got here and saved them a shitload of problems; the words are actually on his tongue when he bites them back, startled. He's actually not okay with outright murder, either, for the record.

"Matt and Jody will be gone until dusk," she says abruptly, saving him from thinking about that one too hard. "They're at the Volunteer Center until dusk."

"Why...." He sucks in a breath. "You sent them away to wait for me?"

"Yes." Slowly, she straightens, meeting his eyes without hesitation, and he remembers who he's talking to and what she does when she's given information and time to think about it. "Dean, I was on Erica's team. Now I'm a team leader now--like they were--and I was involved in the...."

"Attempted assassination of Cas and Vera," Dean finishes for her.

Her throat works for a moment. "Yeah. Now its time for what comes next."

"What do you think--"

"It's time for you to finish cleaning house," she answers reasonably. "Other than Micah, I may be the only one of the assassins still alive, and even if I'm not, I'm definitely the highest ranked. Cas appointed me himself. This isn't new verse same as the first; it's a whole new world you're making--and you may not believe this, but I approve--but you can't have a lieutenant even _suspected_ of involvement in anything that went on before. Outright assassination: exile with a ration pack and twenty-four hours to get out of Kansas isn't going to cut it, not with this. You have to make me an example. That means full, public confession of what I did and who I know was involved, and then you carry out the penalty."

Mouth dry, Dean stares at her; she can't be serious. "You think I should _kill you_?"

"Execute me," she corrects him with a hint of amusement. "Different thing. See, unlike Vera and Cas, I actually deserve it."

Dean tries to work out when this conversation went wrong--for that matter, _how_ it went wrong. "Do you get a trial, pick the judges yet? Just curious, looks like you got it all worked out already."

"I've had a few months to think about it," she tells him. "The chances were fifty-fifty I'd be found out; either you'd work it out yourself or someone--either that you caught in the camp or one of our expats--saw me and would tell you."

"Why now and not the last two years?"

She tilts her head, surveying him like he remembers her doing to Cas's art-map and feels a chill travel down his spine. When Cas told him about the physical differences between him and this Dean, Alicia was the one he mentioned by name. She wasn't allowed in the cabin during the fever; when he had that cold, Cas examined him himself and told Alicia how he was doing and what he needed; she was the one who shouldn't see him without his shirt; she was the one who became Cas's source of gossip after Amanda left and was apparently good at it. All that, and that was _before_ they found out she was the one helping Joe get blackmail material on the border guard, _before_ she worked out what was going on with the migration, before she figured out what it was that caused it. Before he found out she was Erica's tactician.

Before Joe told him how she found out what he was doing at the border on the third goddamn visit.

She's been in and out of their cabin for months, done morning coffee and gossip with Cas, had access to Vera's medical records on both him and Cas, and he doesn't doubt she read them all.

"Doesn't really matter, you know?" she answers, blue eyes guileless. "I don't look gift horses in the mouth, you know?" She leans back against the wall. "If you want, I could fake an escape attempt, make it easier to--"

"Shut up."

Alicia shuts her mouth, eyes fixed on the wall behind him, and he can't do this. He doesn't even know how. "Tomorrow, I'm meeting with the team leaders about what Micah told us; Cas is reviewing Joe's notes now. Look at me." Her head jerks up. "These are your orders. What you told me, you don't tell anyone else, you understand?"

"No--"

"Then fake it," he interrupts. "You'll be at the meeting tomorrow; I need everyone I got for when the barrier comes down, and one more thing. We're negotiating with Naresh to have Micah transferred to us; he needs protection, and that's our mandate, after all."

"Protection from who?"

"Hellhounds," he says. "You were right; he's under contract."

She straightens, knees dropping abruptly. "He came here knowing...that's what Andy died for?"

He nods. "And Erica's collecting."

"She would," she murmurs evasively, almost as if to herself. "Sixty years and she's already working Crossroads: always knew she'd land on her feet." Abruptly, her gaze snaps to him. "She came all the way here and sent a few hundred Croats after us just to get _Micah_?"

So he's not the only one. "Technically, his contract's not even up."

Alicia gazes at the wall behind his head, and he can almost see her putting pieces in place, Erica, Micah, contract, Ichabod, marking each blank spot and going through a list of possible connectors. It's not even a minute before her eyes focus on him, and he can read the suspicion on her face. "When did he sign?"

"You'll find out tomorrow with everyone else," he says. "Your job is to work out what she's actually doing here and why; after the meeting, I'll give you Joe's notes on my chat with Micah. Trial's gonna have to wait. Do you understand your orders?"

She nods slowly. "Yes, sir."

Okay, he should go get coffee; even with Joe's handwriting, Cas reads fast. But. "Why'd you do it?"

She closes her eyes, lips thinning for a moment. "I made the wrong choice," she answers. "I knew it when I said yes, and I still did it."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"I don't have a better one," she says. "I was tired and I was scared and I didn't know them, so why should I...." She shakes her head. "I went along with it because--that's what I always did."

"That's not a reason to do anything."

"It's a reason, it's just a shitty one," she says with a flicker of heat that vanishes almost before it starts. "They're all shitty reasons, Dean; no one has a good reason for murder, just excuses. Are you going to tell Cas...you know, before--before...."

"I judge, jury, and execute?" He can't help the edge in his voice. "Seems like he should know before the trial--is there gonna be a trial, thought that far yet?" She flinches. "Why? Don't want to face him in the morning after he finds out one of his friends--and partners, Jesus Christ, almost forgot the part where you _had sex with him_ \--tried to kill him?"

"I don't, no." She takes a quick breath. "But that's not why...he shouldn't have to see me after--after hearing that. Neither of them should."

He wishes that he wasn't thinking pretty much the same goddamn thing. There's dealing with the fact someone you care about tried to kill you, and then there's doing it while having to see them, give them orders...no.

"No, I'm not," he says, turning to the door in relief. 

He's almost out when Alicia says, "Look, I don't have the right to ask--"

"You don't," he says, opening the door.

"I'd like to go to the fire tonight," she says in a rush, and Dean slams the door shut, turning around. That is the _last_ place he thought anyone would want to go.

"Why?" he asks. "Some of those people, we...." Shot, just say it. Killed. For suspicion of Croat.

"I know," she says. "That's why." She frowns, staring at her knees for a moment. "When I was here before, I talked to--uh, people. Mostly Karl, I mean. It's tradition--they're good at making those, you know what I mean? They--"

"Yeah." He didn't even think about it, not unless Andy was going to be there, and he's pretty sure Cas would have told him if Kat had agreed to that. 

She nods quickly. "Yeah, it's--their thing. Karl said--he said it helped, not just...it helped everyone, even if it didn't feel like it should. I thought he was full of shit, but...but you know, I can be stupid sometimes."

Dean searches helplessly for anger to arm himself, but-- "Did you work the isolation room when you were here?" 

She nods, and like that, he can't argue anymore. He wants to--for fuck's sake, she's a goddamn murderer in intention if not fact, and that's only if she didn't help out hiding the bodies--but....

"Your team goes with you," he says in a facsimile of command, and if she thinks they're gonna be there to watch her and make sure she doesn't do--something, even he can't work out what--that's all to the best. "Anything else?"

"No," she whispers, head still bent, and Dean wishes he could believe it was deliberate, trying to get him to feel sorry for her. It'd be so much easier. "Thank you."

He goes out without another word, shutting the door behind him, and starts determinedly for the stairs; coffee would be good here.

* * *

When he gets back to their room, Cas is sitting on the neatly made bed staring down at the open notebook, which from his expression means he a.) actually could read Joe's handwriting and b.) read it all.

Handing over the coffee--already fixed--Dean sits down on the edge of the bed and tries to work out where to start. Fortunately, Cas doesn't feel like waiting.

Closing the notebook, he sips his coffee. "It doesn't make sense." 

"Which part?" Dean asks curiously.

"Telling us, for one thing." Leaning back against the pillows, Cas frowns at nothing. "If I understand the sequence of events correctly--not having been actually in the interrogation room to hear it myself--" Yeah, he didn't think Cas could avoid reminding him of that, probably for the rest of their lives. "--Micah, among others at Chitaqua, made a contract to become better hunters, which we'll leave for now and get to the part where roughly two months ago, he willingly summoned a demon due to his source of information, presumably at Chitaqua, going silent."

"One of the team leaders, maybe?" Dean asks dubiously, not really believing it; both Alicia and Micah said Erica hated him, and he's got the impression the four team leaders were uniform when it came to who they liked and who they didn't. Which makes him wonder why the hell they wanted him in the first place; Dean only spent part of the morning with him and kind of wants to drop him off in the middle of nowhere. With Croats.

"I doubt it. They would probably have seen him as a deserter from their cause," Cas replies, frown deepening as he takes another drink. "Do you see where this falls down dramatically or is it my imagination?"

"Jeffrey," Dean agrees glumly. "That guy sure gets around for someone who should have been killed by someone. Anyone, Cas, come on."

"The same demon who happened to be stalking Chitaqua also happens to be the one that shows up when Micah calls," Cas continues, though Dean does note the lack of disagreement there. "Micah flees to find Carol. In completely unrelated events, roughly six weeks after this, Ichabod is unexpectedly attacked by Croats led by demons to finish the sacrifice of the children begun at the church. The human infiltrators who helped do that apparently also took the time to set up the mass migration of the state of Kansas that was completed by people unknown due to the barrier collapsing--a barrier erected on your arrival as part of a plan apparently masterminded by demons, which led Micah and Carol here, pursued by Erica and Hellhounds."

"They're related." Okay, that makes sense--maybe?--so now they have to figure out how. 

Cas takes another drink with a look that screams 'I wish we weren't on duty and could drink heavily'. "This would be why Crowley wanted you out of Ichabod," he says, almost as if to himself. "In retrospect, perhaps his--attempt to assist in assuring that--isn't entirely unjustified."

Dean interprets 'assistance' as 'demon blood' and hell no. "Hell. No."

"Considering the trouble they took to get you here," Cas says, "I can see why they'd want to avoid you being killed now."

"Dude, if they were that worried about me being in danger, I think starting off with 'dropping me in front of some Croats in Kansas City' was a bad start."

"I was there," Cas answers. "There was no danger provided I saw you, and just as importantly...." He looks at Dean wryly. "Crowley told me that the one thing that would always get my attention was Dean Winchester; he was right. They placed you there to assure I survived those Croats. So I'd have a reason to want to."

Dean nods as neutrally as he can; that much he figured early on. 

"As long as the barrier was up and you were in Chitaqua, there was nothing that I couldn't easily protect you from--barring such events as the fever, which there's no possible way they could have known would occur--including the collapse of the barrier itself. Behind Chitaqua's wards: Crowley commented on how powerful they were, and it didn't occur to me to wonder why."

"Cas?" Dean says uneasily when the silence goes from 'kind of weird' to 'this is gonna end badly'. 

"I told you that Crowley said someone was reporting on you," Cas says. "But Crowley didn’t' know about the fever; he wondered why you weren't ready--whatever that means--which excludes anyone inside Chitaqua from being the reporter in question."

"No, it doesn't," Dean says, then shakes his head at Cas's querying look. "Later, get back to why Crowley almost killing you is supposed to be a good thing. They knew this was going to happen--"

"Not that you would be _here_ , however," Cas interrupts. "It was probably anticipated that you'd follow in your predecessor's footsteps and concentrate on the threat Lucifer posed, probably with my encouragement, since...."

He stares at Cas, cup forgotten in his hand as Cas smiles faintly. "Cas?"

"That's what I failed to do," he says, amusement rippling through his voice. "Dean lost Sam to Lucifer; that was why Dean abandoned the earlier plan to build up resistance against him and founded Chitaqua. I was supposed to do as he did--to you. Protect you, and train you as I did Dean's soldiers in Chitaqua and make you my weapon against Lucifer in revenge for Dean's death."

Dean opens his mouth and pauses, remembering his first weeks here, wearing those sigils that made him a ghost and actively anticipating Cas's hostile company. It was still better than no one at all.

"How--" He stops, clearing his throat. "How'd they think you'd get me to--to go along with that?"

"I was an angel of the Lord," he says softly. "Despite my usual performance when it comes to Dean--this time, I'd be doing it for him. Perhaps...." Abruptly, he looks away, taking a drink. "Why they thought I'd be better at it now--or that you'd ever go along with it--is a mystery, however. They don't know you."

Alone in a world he didn't know, in a camp that couldn't even see him, his only company literally Cas; how long would it take for him to break? If Cas abruptly changed his tactics after a couple of weeks of softening him up with weeks of being a ghost? Dean wants to say he wouldn't have let it happen, but that's assuming he even realized what Cas was doing. Assuming he'd even care, as long as he wasn't left alone, and that's a pretty goddamn good assumption. 

Any Dean would get Cas's attention, sure--but he wouldn't be the _right_ Dean, just a copy. One Cas would protect but resent , one who would keep the wound of this Dean's death open and still bleeding whenever he looked at him. Cas was supposed to use him; all that anger and grief and resentment turned into a weapon to make Dean one, too. 

Looking at Cas, drinking coffee and pushing his hair out of his eyes--fuck his life, that's still goddamn adorable--Dean remembers when he thought there was nothing left in Cas but anger; it looks like someone else was counting on just that.

And like Dean, they were wrong; what was left was Cas. A person: who knew the difference between two Deans, that giving someone a choice meant more than hearing 'yes' but making sure they could say 'no'; how grief wasn't about getting over it, but learning to move beyond it; and twenty-six Croat-infested bodies brought back for their families, so they could learn to do just that.

"They didn't know you," Dean says, finishing off his cup.

Cas looks up in shittily-hidden relief. "That much is true. How they could think I would even able to--"

"Dude, you can do anything," he interrupts, sitting the cup on the wooden crate-slash-beside table by the lamp. "You wouldn't. Now--tell me where you were going with the 'Crowley stuffing you with demon blood' was okay. Because this plan--which yeah, actually worked, go demons--could have gone wrong anywhere, so why would now be a problem?"

Cas regards him for a moment and then sits down his coffee cup, sliding to the edge of the bed and going to their bags. Twisting around, Dean watches him rummaging and then realizes they're empty.

Also, the pile of clothes is missing. "Did you do laundry?" He was gonna do their laundry, and not because he needs everything he can get to show how he's an awesome partner, especially today.

"Frederick and Rosario are doing it for the entire militia now, as Alison is instituting water rationing," Cas answers, taking something out as he returns to the bed.

"Rationing?" He really doesn't like the sound of that. Then Cas closes the notebook and sets-- "You brought dice with you?"

"I like craps," Cas says mildly. "I thought we would be attending a party, not--this. I also brought cards and Uno, since I've never played and I want you to teach me."

"You never played Uno?"

"Like chess, I never found anyone I wanted to play with before," Cas says as he picks up the dice. "Snake eyes."

The not entirely still surface of the bed doesn't seem to affect his throw. "I'm not betting this time."

"Very wise, Boxcars," Cas agrees, picking up the dice and rolling again: yeah, this is fun and really illustrating...something. "We weren't supposed to be in Ichabod to stop that attack; the children were supposed to die to prove the sacrificial circle worked and the human infiltrators were supposed to survive and finish the plan to get everyone to Ichabod except for those too stubborn for the geas to work with or those who were part of the sacrifice. All these people here--Alicia was correct, the humans working with the demons were trying to balance the wrong they committed, but only because a demon told them what they could do would accomplish that."

"They're all related," Dean says in glum satisfaction.

"No, it's much worse than that," Cas says, picking up the dice. "Three and one." He rolls again and three and one, right there, then picks them up. "The demons who designed this were so certain of where you'd be--in Chitaqua, being thoroughly brainwashed into taking up your assigned role while Kansas was protected by a barrier--that they didn't bother to control for any unexpected variables." Rolling again, he bounces the bed with his heel and the dice roll off onto the bedspread, nestling in the folds. Dean looks from the dice to Cas. "Crowley didn't know about the migration. He didn't know you were visiting around the state at all, and sent demons that could have killed you. He didn't know Erica was at the Crossroad; he never would have risked anyone seeing her break her conditioning."

Like this Dean: replace 'mission' with 'contract' and fuck everything else.

"Ichabod isn't the result of the great master plan," Cas confirms. "Much like the unintended consequences of using a geas without controlling for mutation during its spread--or what would happen to this many people trapped in a small space with inadequate food and shelter--this is the unintended consequences of a plan that several different people--and groups--are taking advantage of without being aware the plan--such as it is--even exists. All they can see is the parts, and they're using them. Including Erica."

Picking up the dice, Dean shakes them idly in his hand, ignoring his right won't unclench at all now. Just need some hot water and maybe remove the goddamn thing after all. "So do we know which parts are which yet and who knows what or--anything?"

"That would be very helpful," Cas answers, glaring at him. "So no, we don't. Even probability couldn't account for this."

"Dude, you didn't need dice to tell me that."

"I've discovered," Cas says, eyeing Dean's hand resentfully, "that I have acquired something of a taste for winning, and this might be the last time I do before we all die."

"Six and two," Dean says, shaking the dice. " _Alea iacta est_." They come up four and one. Reaching out, he flips each one to the correct side and meets Cas's eyes. "Then we'll make our own luck. We're not dead yet."

* * *

Cas is verifying something between interrogation one and three when Dean notices the sun's almost down and remembers what Alicia said. "Cas?"

"He's remarkably consistent, too much so," Cas says without favor. "He was a lawyer, of course, and I instructed everyone on the basics of interrogation protocol. You may be surprised to know he was the best in either class."

"You want to go to the burning tonight?"

Dean watches as Cas fumbles the notebook before he looks up, the flicker of guilt unmistakable; yeah, he does.

"Why didn't you say anything?" he demands, trying to keep the edge from his voice. "Dude, if you want to--"

"You didn't mention wishing to go if Andy wasn't to be burned," Cas interrupts. 

"That doesn't mean you can't," Dean argues. "Let me grab my coat and we'll get out of here."

"That's why," Cas says. "You don't want to, and I won't make you do something that will--upset you. At least, not unless it's necessary."

"Or really funny," Dean points out in a steady voice, and Cas tilts his head before nodding solemn agreement. "Look, you can't go alone--"

"I could," Cas points out.

"--but you're not." He slides off the bed, waiting for Cas to put down the notebook and join him, and takes the opportunity to pull him closer, grinning into the warm blue eyes. "Where you go, I go, okay? Grab your coat and let's go."

* * *

Dean doesn't look in the mirror, taking care of business--okay, two different kinds of water-related business, and God, _water rationing_ , he's not going to think about that right now--and looks around the room for a minute before remembering that one, his coat is downstairs in the lobby closet and two, he's got a different one, courtesy of Alison (he thinks) since his old one was kind of Croat-blood-soaked.

Jogging down the stairs--and pretending that hot water did shit for his hand and the ibuprofen will eventually help--he says, "Cas, did you see a grey coat in the...." 

The lobby is filled with people.

Okay, not _filled_. Alicia and her team--not a surprise--with Matt wrapping a scarf around Alicia's neck with a frown while Jody nods agreement to something; Mel pulling on a pair of gloves while David buttons his coat; Amanda tucking a shapeless, hideous orange yarn hat over her head while Vera watches with a grin; Jeremy helping Joelle into a soft brown coat; Joe and Mariamne waiting at the door and damned if Joe isn't fighting not to reach for her hand; and Cas, armed for winter in an orange yarn hat like Amanda's (that he makes look good, fuck his life) and gloves, and holding Dean's coat and--another orange hat, he's seeing a theme here.

"Where--hat," Dean says vaguely, in lieu of any of the other dozen questions that spring to mind as he crosses the room.

"A gift from someone very kind with a great deal of orange yarn," Cas says, eyes flickering to those assembled and tilting his head. With something not unlike a sigh, everyone takes out their orange yarn hats and puts them on, and Amanda starts to smile as Vera tucks it over her twists in resignation. "I understand it's polite to send thank-you notes when one receives a gift," he continues, holding Dean's coat open and giving the impression Dean better just go with it. "I expect everyone will have their notes complete by tomorrow morning so they can be delivered to Admin, where Alison can give them to the anonymous party."

Surrounded by a chorus of unenthusiastic agreement, Dean stands perfectly still as Cas carefully tucks the hat onto his head; sure, that's kind of embarrassing, but less than if he lost the fight trying to do it himself. Also, that brings Cas closer (always a plus) and he can ask, "Why are..."

"Liz, Daniel, Phil and Drew are taking shifts in Amanda's place for a few hours, as they abruptly decided they would like to catch up with Carol and Kat," Cas murmurs, and Dean remembers that Amanda actually lives in Ichabod, even if she didn't know those that were killed personally. "Before Kyle volunteered to visit with her as well and therefore trapping them all."

Poor fuckers: no good deed goes unpunished.

"Mark, Kamal and his regular team, and our recruits left about a quarter hour ago. Jeremy is accompanying Joelle and meet with her mother once we get there; Joe is attending with Mariamne; Mel, David, and Vera weren't entirely clear on their reasons, but then again, I also didn't ask."

They're crazy, Dean thinks with a flicker of affection. 

"Vera," Cas says, buttoning Dean's coat with a serious expression (really, he should tell Cas he doesn't need to do that. Anytime now), "how was Sudha when you left her?"

"Good. Lewis is losing at poker to her, last I checked," she answers easily, not betraying by a flicker of her expression it's not just a casual question. "They'll come get me if there's any change."

"You ready?" Joe asks as Cas smooths down the collar of Dean's coat. "So let's go."

* * *

Dean didn't think to inquire on the logistics of burning upwards of twenty bodies (as in, he didn't want to think about it), but considering Ichabod had to burn three times that number of their residents after the Croat attack a few weeks ago, they seem to know how it's done. Though granted, the Wall's kind of absorbed all the houses and places that you might go for easily accessible wood.

The location is about a quarter mile from the east side of Fourth Street--not far from the bonfire on New Year's Eve, come to think, though the bare, snow-covered ground that seems to stretch out forever, free of rubble, makes it hard to be sure. He's not sure what was here before, but the giant hole was probably where the foundation of a building once stood, now filled with several neat layers of wood (some looks like firewood, others cleaned branches) and what looks like any flammable material they could find in twenty-four hours. Giant, battery-powered lights are set up in all four corners, and people on the edge are passing down more wood to those inside.

There's already a good-size crowd gathering, and Dean's grateful for the darkness; those who look back can't see who they are (for those playing the home game, five of them are the people who are responsible for the bodies being dead, while three for those bodies being brought back to burn tonight). As they come to a stop near the southeast side, Dean sees Jeremy and Joelle make a beeline for a woman near the back that in the dim light it takes a moment for Dean to recognize as Maimouna, Joelle's mom, who holds out her arms for Joelle, and he wonders who she knew who's being burned tonight. He should have asked Jeremy; why didn't he do that?

"Is there going to be--you know...talking." He winces; what the hell is wrong with him?

"There was a multi-denominational service earlier in the remains of the church on Seventh," Cas murmurs in his ear. "It was the only place that had space enough for everyone in the current crowded conditions and also sufficient walls to keep out most of the wind, but for obvious reasons, each religious leader kept it short, with smaller gatherings planned for tonight for those of differing faiths."

Dean nods, trying to think of something to say, and what comes out is, "Then why the multi first?"

"Alison told me that when they first settled, there were roughly eight religions among less than two hundred people," Cas says. "And six different Christian sects. It was a way to assure that everyone was able to take consolation with their community and friends as well as still practice their faith. All the families of the victims gave permission to burn them here; even if they could take them home immediately, transportation of an infected body isn't something any of them would risk."

As more people arrive, Dean tries and fails not to guess who were the family and friends and who were acquaintances, fighting the urge to duck his head when anyone comes too close. From the corner of his eye, he catches a couple heading in their direction and glancing back, recognizes Karl, shoulder-length dreadlocks emerging from under a soft brown knit hat, though the guy with him Dean only knows he's seen around town.

They stop near Alicia, and Karl immediately steps forward and hugs her; even without much light, he can see her surprise, hands flailing a little before tentatively wrapping around his waist and head dropping to rest against his shoulder. Behind her, Matt and Jody watch curiously, not surprised, and Dean realizes after a moment that he's looking for Andy behind them and jerks his gaze away.

"They apparently became friends when she worked in Ichabod's infirmary after the attack," Cas says softly, having followed Dean's gaze. "He and his partner Pedro were her hosts."

Dean glances back again in time to see Karl transfer Alicia to Pedro. "She worked isolation."

"Vera thinks she was the one who saw to the children." Dean stiffens, looking at Cas; even reminding himself what she did doesn't do anything for the sheer horror. "It's very rare they lose children to Croat, and never so many. She said there might not have been anyone who had sufficient objectivity."

Dean flashes on Del and the dead bodies at the stairs, the injured kids that Callie and Emmy took with them into the locked room at the daycare, the ones who were found later, still alive when in a fair world they shouldn't have been. Then stops, doing the math and coming up with fresh horror. "It was over eight hours before Alicia got to Ichabod."

"Dolores has a very strict policy about discussing isolation," Cas murmurs. "I doubt anyone other than a very few who needed to know--including the parents--are aware that--"

"Those kids were already Croat?" Dean demands. "She went in there to shoot up Croat _kids_...." Bad enough to see the dead bodies, horrible to imagine doing that to any kids, but that.... "You're telling me she _volunteered_?"

"Apparently, that's exactly what she did," Cas answers, eyes fixed on some point in the distance. "If Kyle--somehow--discovered what she was doing and took advantage of her distress...."

"She might have told him," Dean starts, then shakes his head when Cas looks at him in patent disbelief. "Yeah, he must have followed her or saw something and guessed; son of a _bitch_."

"I'm aware," Cas says in voice so rigidly controlled that Dean can almost hear the smiting in it, "that it is not within our responsibilities to in any way regulate or interfere--or even show interest in--the private lives of the militia. However, Kyle's behavior has historically been questionable, and if he deliberately used his knowledge of Alicia's actions in the line of duty--knowledge acquired by underhanded means--to manipulate her when she was--not thinking clearly--I don't feel confidence in his integrity as a team leader."

"Or a person," Dean says quietly, wondering what they don't know about what might have happened with Jane, what she didn't report other than stalking. And why would she, after all? Once you're living in a camp where the team leaders were suspected murderers and given a pass, it's not exactly a jump to assume lesser crimes wouldn't even make the radar.

Looking back again, Dean sees Matt shaking Karl's hand and Jody talking quietly to Pedro and stops himself from looking for Andy again. To his surprise, Naresh and Suma join them, and as Alicia turns toward them, he sees her face crumple as Suma reaches for her and makes himself look away. Whatever she did, her grief over Andy isn't a lie, and he's not going to grudge her getting what comfort she can for that; he's not and never gonna be that much of a dick.

And nothing can make Kyle's actions okay. "When we get back to Chitaqua, find a way to talk to Jane," he says. "And anyone else who has a history with him. Stalking may not be the only thing Jane didn't want to report."

Cas nods, shoulder brushing his, and looking around, Dean realizes the crowed has tripled with more people still coming. Glancing at Cas, he sees him gazing toward a woman carrying a kid, two older ones trailing behind her. "Who's that?"

"Callisto," he says. "Her cousin was--among those outside the walls."

Callisto comes to a stop near the northeast edge, close enough to the light that Dean catches a glimpse of her rigid face and her hold on the kid in her arms. "Cousin's kids?"

"At least two of them," Cas agrees. "She told me they were very close."

So there was more than just talk about how to get bodies, okay. Just then, Callisto glances over, expression changing when she sees Cas. He may be imagining it (he's not), but he's pretty sure the way she stills is when she sees Dean. 

"Go," Dean says, nudging Cas's shoulder. "It's what you do when--you know."

For a horrified moment, Cas looks like he may ask Dean to accompany him, but then he nods, starting toward Callisto. When he reaches them, Cas reaches politely to shake her head, and as Callisto indicates each kid, Cas practices his 'being introduced to new people' by crouching to solemnly shake each small hand.

"Okay, that's adorable," Vera murmurs in his ear, and Dean realizes he's smiling as Cas listens to one of the kids--both boys, he thinks, but the big winter coats make that a guess--nodding along with the kind of strict attention kids love. "He likes kids, huh?"

"Oh yeah." As Cas straightens to peer at the kid in Callisto's arms, murmuring something, the little head lifts and to Callisto's obvious surprise (though not Dean's), two tiny red-coated arms reach out. Of course Cas likes kids; the only surprise was that Cas seemed surprised that day in the daycare when he read a story to the toddler room while the other kids from the church watched from outside the door. Of course he'd like them; they're the one group of people who haven't learned yet you're supposed to be afraid of the unknown on principle. And they sure as hell like him. 

After a few seconds of what looks like a very earnest conversation with someone under three--Dean's had a lot of those, and even the ones that have words don't necessarily make sense--the kid drops her head on his shoulder and looks just about ready to go to sleep. Callisto looks between the kid and Cas in surprise, and even from here, Dean can see Cas shrug.

"Angel thing?" Vera asks softly as Callisto and Cas talk while he gently strokes the red-coated back of the kid in his arms. 

"Cas thing," he replies absently, thinking of Cas's suggestion that they visit the daycare a couple of nights ago and wishing he hadn't been too distracted to wonder if maybe Cas wanted to go, too. Hang out in the one place, with the one group of people, who aren't a crapshoot, who look at Cas and see _him_. 

After only a minute or two, Cas returns the obviously sleeping child to Callisto and saying something before starting back toward them. Dean wonders at that until he notices people hovering a short distance from Callisto, their gazes fixed on Cas. They're too far away and it's too dark to catch their expressions, but Cas can see in the dark and he doubts Cas missed them.

"Be right back," he tells Vera and starting to Cas, meeting him halfway and shrugging at his suspicious look. "So what, you're baby Valium now?"

"Callisto mentioned that," Cas says, tucking his hands into his coat pockets; nothing about his expression says he noticed the watchers, but then again, this is Cas. "They'll only stay until Reva's body is brought out and they begin the burn so her children can say goodbye. It shouldn't be long now."

When they get back, Dean casually puts himself between Cas and the gazes of those people and notices Mel and David subtly come up behind them while Amanda and Vera station themselves on Cas's other side. Glancing over, Vera looks at him before her gaze flickers to those people and back; nodding, Dean relaxes. So she saw it, too.

The sound of a couple of engines gets everyone's attention, and Dean turns to watch the crowd part as two vans come to a stop and cut the engines. Craning his neck, he watches as several figures emerge from the cabs, dressed in protective gear over their coats and wearing thick rubber gloves as they circle around to open the back doors of each van. 

And one just wearing a coat and hat, standing back to direct those who lay out stretchers on the ground for those retrieving the bodies. Dean doesn't need any light to work out who that is. He'd recognize the shape of Alison's shoulders anywhere, voice clear and carrying through the crowd even if the words are indistinct, Claudia beside her. 

Dean counts the bodies as they're carried one by one to those waiting in the hole, handing down each stretcher with practiced care and taking a previous stretcher back to do it all again. Sixteen from the first van, sheets blindingly white in the harsh glare of the light. Faintly, he thinks he can hear someone start to sob, but otherwise, it's almost painfully silent.

When they hit ten from the second van with no end in sight, Dean rouses himself enough to ask, "Who else--"

"Some from the YMCA and library incidents," Vera answers, voice unnaturally loud in the waiting silence. "They couldn't get enough material for everyone tonight, so Croat got priority, and the first families they approached who said yes for the six others." Her eyes follow the bodies, and he guesses at least one was probably among her patients that night.

As the last body is placed on a stretcher, Alison goes to close the first van door herself while Claudia does the second, then both follow the same path the bodies took to the edge of the pit. The gap in the crowd is enough for Dean to get a glimpse inside, but not enough; it's only when he can see the rows of bodies being covered by the volunteers in the pit that he realizes he's only a few feet from Alison now and can't remember actually moving.

Thirty-two bodies: twenty-six of them are his, died by his hand or on his order, and that distinction makes no difference at all. Unable to look away, he counts them again and again, almost resenting the anonymity the sheets provide despite the fact he can't remember a single one of their faces. He should, though; right now, he can't even remember if he even bothered to look them in the face before shooting them, a bullet to the head that ended twenty-six lives.

A few feet away from Alison, Dean sees Tony and Teresa standing with a group, among them some faces he recognizes as members of Ichabod's town council and three Alliance mayors. Two of them, Lourdes and John Henry, Noak and Andale respectively, join Alison and Claudia at the edge of the pit, and Dean wonders distantly who among those twenty-six were theirs.

Then Alison speaks, voice pitched to reach effortlessly across the crowd. "Tonight, we acknowledge our loss. Together, we are infinitely greater, and so follows that the absence of those who died makes us infinitely less than we were. Where they were, we will never again see them: at our tables, in our homes, on our streets, during our celebrations and in our grief." In the harsh light, Dean can see her gaze deliberately sweep over the crowd like she's speaking directly to each and every person here. "That is as it should be; we will always remember them. These are their names; please repeat them with me."

Deliberately, Alison says each name followed by dozens--maybe hundreds--of voices repeating it, and Dean's with them, learning the shape of them in his mouth and committing them to memory. He should have known them already, should have gotten a list, found out about their families; for fuck's sake, he didn't even bother to look at their _faces_.

A movement to his left gets his attention, and he sees Alicia, flanked by Jody and Matt, watching with tears streaking her cheeks as she says each and every name, and wonders if she's thinking of the children from isolation and the burn for them she didn't attend; of Andy, still in Ichabod's mortuary and waiting for the day they can burn him in Chitaqua.

Andy, who died yesterday, and Dean still hasn't fucking bothered to ask Cas how old he was.

When the sound of the thirty-second name has faded into silence, Alison signals those in the pit, and the chemical smell of propane among the various accelerants drifts toward them in the cold air, overpowering the aromatic oils. Breathing through his mouth is a mistake; now he can taste it, too.

The volunteers climb out, and it takes a moment for Dean to notice that Tony's on the far side of the hole, holding something and looking at Alison. When she nods, he looks down at what Dean thinks is some kind of remote, and then the unmistakable sound of crackling is followed by a sudden leap of flames across the bodies.

"Dean?" Cas says when the crowd slowly begins to disperse. "Are you ready--"

"No." Making an effort, he looks at Cas. "Go back without me, okay? I need to...." It's hard to think when thirty-two names are scrolling endlessly through his head, but he's got to try. "An hour, okay? Meet you in our room."

Cas hesitates, searching his face. "You shouldn't be alone."

Oh, he won't be alone: he's got thirty-two burning bodies to keep him company. "Please, Cas." He hopes Cas hears that he won't ask again; it'll be an order.

Finally, Cas nods. "An hour, and then I come and find you."

Dean nods, watching Cas turn, signaling Vera and the rest to follow with the casual, unthinking certainty of being obeyed, and waits until they're swallowed by the darkness to turn back around. Watching the flames, he repeats the thirty-two names over and over, aware of nothing of the fast burn of the fire and the smell and taste flowers and wood and burning flesh.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize, first off; last week was my birthday and my only excuse is birthday things, including all new stuff for my bed. VERY EXCITING. I'm not kidding, the pillows...God, my pillows are awesome. Made of clouds or something. My posting schedule will be ten days to two weeks apart, but barring training stuff--which they're treating at work as 'fit in around all your other work'--it shouldn't be longer than that and hopefully shorter. I have to admit, work is a lot more fun now, even if there's more of it.
> 
> Thanks for your patience!

_\--Day 156, continued--_

Castiel counts the minutes as he first fulfills his duties as Chitaqua's commander: verifying the patrol schedule and reports before appointing Mel duty officer until midnight followed by Christina until dawn, and assuring Carol is safely returned to the infirmary and reassuring her that if Dolores permits it, she's welcome to return.

That leaves him twenty-seven minutes, and belatedly remembering the vaguely dazed look of his subordinates, it occurs to him that perhaps he could have taken a little more time.

Going to the mess, he starts to ask if there's anything remaining from the dinner and stops short at the sight of Brenda frozen by the oven, mitts on both hands.

"Brenda?" he asks, reaching to touch her and only then registering the unnatural silence and the fact he can't smell whatever's cooking.

Drawing back, he crosses the mess and enters the lobby, throat tight when he sees the frozen tableau of Evelyn at the desk, Jeremy holding his coat and leaning over the log book; the Situation Room is empty, but a quick check of the second floor reveals Mel caught leaning against the wall outside her team's door, David cupping her face with a tender expression meant for no one eyes but hers.

Going to his and Dean's room, he calmly retrieves Ruby's knife and another of cold iron, concealing Ruby's in his boot and the strapping the other against his inner arm just above his wrist. Searches through his kit, he removes powdered silver and powdered cold iron, and on further consideration, takes wood- and silver-tipped bullets (why not?). He also quickly sets the baskets of clean laundry by the bathroom door and out of the way; there's no reason not to be tidy when possible (and reminds himself to thank Rosario and Frederick for their good work). 

When he emerges onto the balcony, the late evening makes it impossible to be sure, but focusing on the fire, two minutes observation shows no discernible change in the shape; that's what he thought, but it's pleasant to have confirmation.

"I'm going to need more than this," he tells the empty air on his way down the back stairs, checking his sidearm. "As portents go, it's substandard; I could do better with a broom and a questionably clean sheet."

He's just reached the lobby when he hears a voice, so unexpected he just manages to conceal the fact he almost drew. "Cas?" He looks up at Nate leaning over the railing of the floor above him. "Cas, I can't get Mira and James up, and Mel and David are--"

"Yes, I noticed." He looks around the lobby suspiciously. "Not better," he murmurs to whoever is listening before telling Nate, "You can come down--"

Nate's halfway down the spiral staircase before he finishes the sentence, emerging almost at a run and crossing the silent lobby uneasily. "So Dean was right about the building." 

"It's not the building," he says, then revises that for honesty. "At least, not now. This is simply time in suspension, that's all."

Nate gazes at him incredulously. "Oh, that's all? Time's suspended?"

"It's nothing to worry about," Castiel tells him encouragingly, wondering why Nate seems so disconcerted; he doesn't think anyone who lived happily in Winchester House has any grounds to panic whatsoever. "The only question is why you're not affected. And me, I suppose."

" _That's_ the only question?" Nate bursts out, a baffling edge of hysteria in his voice. "How about--I don't even know," he finishes helplessly, looking around them. "How about 'why'?"

"That would be useful," he agrees, tilting his head toward the door. "And the extent of the area this is affecting as well. Come along."

"What?" Nate exclaims, but when Castiel emerges onto the street, Nate is almost plastered against his back. 

As they both look around, Castiel smiles at the sight of snow-flurries captured mid-motion; it's quite beautiful. Nate approaches the nearest one with an odd lack of appreciation for its pure aesthetics, staring at it in horrified fascination. Raising a hand, he reaches into the flurry and jerks his hand back, looking stunned as he stares at his hand, as if he expected it to change into something else. "It feels like...like _snow_."

He's become spoiled by Dean's quick mind and easy _sangfroid_ no matter the situation; either that, or humans are becoming stupider. "That is because it _is_ snow," he answers as patiently as he can. "In case this is your next question, you are indeed still breathing 'air'." He cheers himself by reminding himself that this is the man who didn't notice the Apocalypse began when he was living in Winchester House. And needed it to read his mind because he was so prone to almost dying walking out random windows.

"God, this is weird," Nate mutters as Castiel scans the empty street. Not many people are out this late, of course. "So is this--is this happening everywhere or just here?"

That is a very good question. "There's no practical way to be certain," he admits, thinking of time bubbles and rivers and the inadvisability of using his ability to see all things at the moment. Looking up, he studies the sky, tracking the streaks of frozen color that are the intersection between the storm and the protective bubble over Ichabod keeping it at bay. "Knowing the reason it exists would possibly also tell us its extent. But it's definitely not confined to Ichabod proper."

Following his gaze, Nate nods uncertainly. "I'll take your word for it. So why _would_ someone stop time?"

"Slow time, rather," he corrects Nate after staring at the snow flurry that Nate touched; the area of the flurry that Nate's hand displaced is incrementally smaller, though he'd need several hours--relatively speaking--of observation to work out the exact differential other than 'rather high'. "So the question is, why would anyone want to slow time here and now...." 

He meets Nate startled gaze, who stares back at him, eyes widening in realization. "We should--"

"--go to the infirmary," he agrees, starting for the street exit. "Yes, now."

* * *

"What the hell," Dean mutters, coming up to an empty Second Street at a dead run, panting and making a note a lot of running around Chitaqua is in his future; this is bullshit. Jogging down the street, he ignores the feel of not-moving snow flurries hitting him in the face even if it's spooky as shit; he doesn't have time for spooky right now, thanks.

Opening the door to Headquarters, he shouts, "Cas!" before he realizes he's in the white room. This goddamn building: he doesn't have time for spooky goddamn buildings, either.

Stopping short, he realizes something else; it's not just white now, but _white_ , painful as snowglare. He has to squint, eyes burning, and gasps from the shock of ice-hot pain from his hand, muscles curling on themselves so tightly the bones seem to be trying to bend with them. "What the _fuck_ \--"

"Sorry," a familiar voice says, and through his lids, the endless white glare starts to fade. Squinting, he waits for it to go down the rest of the way before opening his eyes, blinking away the remaining glare, and after a moment makes out the shape of his usual companion a few feet away.

Then blinks, startled: worn jeans and a leather jacket over a faded flannel and thermal, brown hair in a sensible braid, and wearing at least two guns and a knife in her left boot. She's also in the process of sheathing a sword, silver-white that vanishes into a plain leather sheathe worked in darker symbols he can't quite focus on enough to read; that's what was causing the 'way too white' issue, okay. For some reason, the pain fades as well, settling into a sullen throb in his palm as he tries and fails to flex his hand; he's pretty sure they're past the 'hot water will help' now. 

"I panicked," she says apologetically. "I thought you were...them."

Dean checks the walls--no pictures--but he already figured this was a non-standard...whatever they do here. "Them?"

"Reason I'm here," she answers distractedly, looking around suspiciously, like she expects _them_ \--whoever they are--to appear any minute. "Well, mostly."

Right, one of these conversations. "What's going on?"

She makes a face. "I was hoping you'd tell me."

He's not sure if that's scary or kind of sad. "No idea. I was--"

"Torturing yourself at the burning," she finishes carelessly, raising an eyebrow at his expression. "What? Dean Winchester, infer self-torment. A gimme, as it were."

He licks his lips, not sure what to say to that. Time for a change of subject. "Nice outfit?" Oh God, what?

She brightens, looking down at herself in satisfaction. "Trying to fit in; this is how your hunters dress. Even the women." She turns--for his benefit, he assumes--and looks at him hopefully. "When in Rome and everything...."

Despite himself, he grins, nodding. "Yeah, that'd be it. You look great." Except for the sword: as yet, none of his hunters carry one of those standard. "So where'd you get the sword?"

"This?" She looks down, like some other sword may have showed up, wrapping her hand around the plain, leather-wrapped hilt. "Same place you got your knife: myself."

He tries to flex his empty hand, feeling a hilt pressing against his palm for a burning moment. 

"It's not done yet," she continues, face puckering. "It's missing something, but I don't know what."

Behind her, he sees a faint, misty image form; it's the river he saw before. It's no longer bathed in golden light, though; grey, churning water rushes beneath a thinning grey-white mist, frantic activity around the nearly-complete barge that's almost the size of a cruise ship now, and the shore now boasts dozens of lines of kilted soldiers in silver steel, more still forming behind them as he watches. 

"Almost ready?" he asks her as a man and two women wade ankle deep into the water, another man behind them, all wearing breastplates of silver ice and the women the crimson of a Roman general, eyes on the opposite shore in the far distance, a bare suggestion of a bank concealed swirling grey-white. Claws of hardened carbon, empty-black and sharper than anything corporeal, abruptly emerge, miles long and swiping at those waiting. 

Two swords flash out: one of the women jumps to land on the pitted surface of one claw and stabs downward with a flash of blue-white light, nailing it into the mud; the other woman cuts through it just behind her heels with a second flash with a sound like a metal-on-metal scream. With a bone-jarring shriek, the claws retract, vanishing into the mist, and the first woman jumps down with a splash and jerks her sword up, holding it aloft with six feet of black claw impaled on the blade.

"I like them," he tells his companion. "Yours?"

"Penthesilea and Hippolyta, two of my generals," his companion says in satisfaction as the second woman wraps an arm around the hips of the first, lifting her effortlessly before the eyes of the lines of soldiers. Even from here, he can see their fierce smiles, hear their laughter float over the soldiers lining the river's bank, the responding shouts of affirmation and triumph. Her smile widens as she draws the attention of the two men before turning back to him. "You were right," she says abruptly. "About asking for help."

He nods: he is, sometimes.

"I just don't know what I need yet." She blows out a breath, lips curling in a silent snarl. "How do you kill something that's never been alive? Got anything? I'm open to ideas, even really bad ones."

Oh, _them_. "Yeah, we're working on that."

"Keep me informed, would you?" She sees his raised eyebrow and sighs. "I know, but this one we can't bend; trust me, I would. You can help me, but I can't help you. At least, not like this."

He cocks his head; that's not the answer he expected (if he's honest, he didn't expect an answer at all, and for that matter, before he even asked a question). "Why?"

"You told me why."

"When did I...." It's not better with a script, no matter who writes it. "Huh." So he can help, awesome. How, though.... "Might help if you told me what you're doing." Though he has a pretty good guess; the barge-cruise ship is up in the air, but that's an army if he ever saw one, and he could be wrong, but what they're gonna fight is on the other side. And it has really big claws.

He only debates for a moment; if he can help, he should. That's not even a question. "One of their corporeal forms is canine," he says, and her eyes widen. "Hellhounds raped Cynothoglys to breed them, but no idea how many. Cas thinks they may be patrolling all the lands and paths of the dead, including the gates of Heaven, but there's no way to tell. That's all we know right now."

She covers her mouth, eyes closing for a moment before she composes herself, a soldier reforming before his eyes. "Mortal eyes could see them without damage?"

"Nate could," he says, filing away the question in the vague hope he'll remember that if nothing else and hey, that explains something else. "You thought I was them when I came in? In this building?" She nods. "Nate's here. He's--contaminated by their cousin or something. In a good way, I mean."

Her expression tells him she's going with it, which is good; that sword looks really sharp. "I wonder why I didn't sense him before?"

If she doesn't know, he can't even guess. "Magic? Or maybe the time bubble."

"Time bubble?" she asks in surprise, and oh, he's owed this one.

"You know, the thing outside; time bubble around Ichabod." Or however far it goes. She blinks at him slowly and he can't resist. "Time's like a river," he starts, adopting Cas's exact tone when dumbing down Creation for human (his) benefit. "You can dam it--bad idea, like fireworks--or make a bubble around an area and slow time down inside it. Hidden in plain sight, like, you know, the slow part of a river." He shrugs casually. "Happens all the time, like a party trick. You never ran into one?"

Her eyes narrow. "Smug isn't a good look on anyone."

He grins back. "It feels good, though."

Looking annoyed--that reminds him of someone, though he can't quite think of who--she paces a few feet before stopping short, shaking her head. "This is impossible."

"Nothing's impossible," he corrects her. "Just really, really improbable. Trust me, I know."

She rolls her eyes. "I forgot, I'm talking to the impossible himself. You're a standard all your own, Dean Winchester."

Her hand drifts to the hilt of her sword. Frowning, she looks down at it again, fingers flexing around the leather uncertainly.

"What did you put in it?" he asks, nodding at it. 

"My determination, to do what I must," she recites, straightening. "My strength, given freely and without reserve. My courage, to stand when others flee. My endurance, in the face of suffering and deprivation. My resignation, should the battle go against us--"

"How does defeat feel?" he cuts her off, and she stiffens. "Christ, you lost already and you haven't even stepped on the field."

"What?"

"You're doing it wrong." Crossing to her, he covers her hand, pulling the sword out a half inch and squinting against the glare, ignoring the scream of pain shuddering along his nerves. "That's a checklist. Throw in 'shoots well' and 'can drive a car'--or ride a horse, I guess--and you got a list of decent skillsets. You need more than that."

"What's missing?" 

"Where's your hope?" Without thinking, he folds back the loose sleeves of the flannel and shoves up the thermal, revealing the network of open red wounds stretching up her forearm, still bleeding; Licinia wasn't the only one who didn't fuck around getting shit done. He glances up at her, but she's staring at them as well, eyes blank; in the too-bright light, he traces the suggestion of purple around one eye, the angry swell of her lower lip, and fights down the shock of helpless rage. He bites back hot words; she doesn't need to deal with his shit, and the person that deserves it isn't here anyway. "This isn't all you are. Where's the rest?"

"Of me?" She touches the scars with shaking fingers. "I lost that a long time ago."

"Time to get it back." Fresh blood wells up, and Dean frowns, using the edge of his own flannel to clean it away. "This isn't you; that was just the end. It's _past_ , no help for it, but you gotta stop wearing it as your skin; it's _not you_." When he wipes away the blood again, they aren't any more healed: still open, still waiting to bleed again. They'll bleed forever if you let them and sometimes even if you don't. "You aren't weak."

"You don't know--" 

"I don't need to," he interrupts, impatiently wiping away the blood again; this time, it sticks. Still open, though, and it's not enough, but it'll have to be, at least for now. Gently, he tugs her sleeves back down, settling the flannel over her forearm. "Something's missing, it's always gonna be missing, because it's not everything; you gotta take it all back. Everything you are, you were , and will ever be; that's what's gotta be in there, or it won't work."

Letting her go, he steps back, fighting the urge to flex his hand around a knife that isn't there and doesn't shouldn't can't exist. If it did, he'd want to use it, and the guy who did that to her isn't here anyway.

"So," he says, changing the subject. "No idea what's going on?"

She starts to shake her head, then hesitates.

"Specifically, no," she answers, frowning as she looks around at the unchanged walls. "But I think--could be wrong--that someone is trying to perform a miracle."

* * *

The infirmary is equally unsettling, but Castiel concentrates on their destination, pulling Nate behind him on the stairs when he seems inclined to linger to look around in shocked horror. 

"Later," he says impatiently as they reach the second floor and start toward the third. "I promise, you can spend time being unsettled by the memories just as easily. Though considering your history, it's a little hypocritical, don't you think?"

"What?" As they reach the third floor, they both hear Vera's voice, professionally calm to anyone else, but Cas recognizes the edge in it and speeds up. "Hey, so Vera--"

"To deliver a baby, a medical professional is generally recommended, if available," he says, taking the remaining stairs two at a time and then stops just short of the hall that leads to the newly created pregnancy wing. "Before we arrive--Nate, what did you do to Sudha's room?"

Nate looks at him blankly. "Patched the walls, gave it a coat of primer and paint--"

"I mean," he tries again. "Did you do--anything not strictly within the laws of physics?"

Nate's expression goes from 'blank' to 'incredulous'. "How would I--"

"The same way you repair massive dimensional rifts," he interrupts impatiently. "With drywall and paint. It's what you do. Very well, I should say: well done."

Nate looks down the hall, then at him. "Okay, one--thanks? And two...." He looks away, but Castiel sees him flush. "I didn't do anything but what I said, but I hoped--if you were right about what I was doing with House--maybe it would protect them or something, I don't know. When Dolores said there were a few women who might deliver soon, I thought--" He shrugs, but for some reason, the flush deepens. "They've been through a lot getting here, and I wanted them to at least have nice rooms, somewhere quiet." Nate looks defensive. "What? I was here, so why not?"

"Sudha liked it very much," he answers, starting down the hall. "You did very well."

Outside Sudha's door are several very unfrozen women--Deepika, Cathy, and Suma sitting beside a very worried-looking Mercedes--all of whom look at him and Nate in surprise. 

"Good evening," he says, wondering if they're aware of anything outside this area. From their expressions--worried but not terrified, and the lack of catatonia is also reassuring--he assumes not, and blesses whoever may be listening for small favors. "How is Sudha?"

"Calm," Suma says, one arm around Mercedes' shoulders. "Vera was hoping you'd be here soon."

Castiel tries to remember if he saw anyone mid-run on his way here and dismisses it. "Wait here," he tells Nate, who nods in relief. "Let me see if she needs my assistance." His vessels' memories of childbirth are not entirely pleasant except in outcome.

When he enters the room, he has a moment to take in the scene; Sudha calmly walking the length of the room on Njoya's arm, her abdomen seemingly even larger and wires trailing from under her gown to a machine by the bed; Rabin tracking her from a few feet away with a worried but not alarmed expression; Neeraja speaking quietly to Rabin, but also unalarmed; Alison in one of the chairs, face pale and very composed, but far too tense and very successfully hiding it; and Vera reading over a chart with a small smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

When she looks up, however, her expression is one of barely-hidden relief. "Cas," she says, lowering her chart. "Sudha, be just a sec; I'm going to update him. Keep walking: you're doing great. Njoya, just stick 'em back on if the monitors fall off."

Obediently, Castiel follows Vera down the hall and out of earshot of those waiting outside the room. "Her water broke, labor started," she says. "And no change in why she can't deliver: Cas, help me out here. What do I _do_?"

His vessels' birth experiences did not cover this. "Remain calm and follow her lead."

" _What_ \--"

"She'll be fine," he says. "Just do your best as if this was a normal labor."

She swallows hard, hands clenched into fists at her sides. "I'm going to kill her."

"You aren't--"

"Cas, I don't know--the C-section was _luck_ , book outlined what to do, a goddamn _cat_ could have done it, but this...Cas, I can't do this, I'm going to kill her, I'm going to miss something obvious, come on! I'm gonna kill her and her baby because I don't know _shit_ about what I'm doing!"

He hesitates, looking at her upturned face and the obvious terror. "You know more than anyone else here," he says. "Dolores wouldn't have left you in charge of Sudha if she had any doubt."

Before Vera can answer, Njoya comes to the door of Sudha's room and says, "Vera? She says the contractions are getting stronger. I'm timing at under two minutes."

"Be right there," she says, and he watches the effort it takes her to reassemble her professional demeanor and finds himself thinking about Carol and her brutal tongue, how she spoke of Alicia, and wonders what--if anything--she might have said to Vera when she was told about her leg.

"Vera," he starts, filing that away for later. "I doubted many things, but not you. I never would have trusted you with Dean otherwise."

"I didn't--"

"Try again," he tells her, reminding her of that terrible night in the cabin when Dean's heart stopped for the last time. "That's what I told you. I knew you could do it; all you needed was time."

She nods jerkily, unconvinced. "Cas--"

"You'll save her," he says softly. "Just like you saved Dean. And me."

"Right," she says, squaring her shoulders and turning toward the door like a woman facing her own execution. "Let's go."

* * *

"A _miracle_?" Wow, they could use a couple of those about now. "Any chance you can....no, of course not," he adds in disgust when she shakes her head. "That would be easy."

"Not omnipotent," she reminds him. "And really, don't want to be, having thought about it. Imagine knowing everything."

"I have," he admits, thinking of Cas. "An expert told me it's pretty goddamn boring." Despite everything, he finds himself looking back at the door. It's like.... "So why would someone stop time?"

"Slowed down," she corrects him mockingly. "Or so you seemed to imply."

"Yeah, the better to hide something." A miracle, why would you slow down time? To do something and hide it, sure, that helps, but _what_? What would make time a problem, enough you need to slow it down? To keep something from happening, okay, or put it off until.... "A miracle," he says slowly. "Is that kind of like a cosmic event?"

"Can be," she agrees. "Why?"

"That door take me back outside?" he asks, just to check. "It will, right?"

"It should," she says, touching her sword again. "Are you going to keep up twenty questions or tell me--"

"Later," he says, turning back to the door and ignoring her scowl. "Maybe."

" _What_ \--"

"Now you know how it feels. I gotta get to the infirmary," he says, opening the door to the night outside and the still-frozen but much less spooky flurries of snow. "Something impossible's about to happen."

* * *

Sitting at the foot of the low bed, Rabin behind her and giving her his support, Sudha practices excellent breathing technique; of everyone in the room, she's genuinely the most calm, one hand resting on Rabin's forearm, the other closed over the edge of the mattress each time there's a contraction. Neeraja and Njoya, sitting on chairs on either side of her, both mirror her breathing, while Alison reads Sudha's favorite Indian folk tales in unsettlingly fluent, very idiosyncratic Hindi.

(Sudha's warning look tells him not to mention it. Deepika explains that Sudha picked that collection for Alison to read with this in mind.)

Returning from scrubbing down in the nearby bathroom, Vera snaps on clean gloves and smiles at Sudha before kneeling in front of the thick towel protecting the padding on the floor between Sudha's spread legs.

"So, how're we doing?" she asks, nodding at Njoya to lift back Sudha's hospital gown after a check with Sudha results in a quick nod. "Just checking dilation, and I promise, my hands are warm this time."

Sudha grins between regular breaths, and Castiel averts his gaze back to the tray, stacked with rolls of clean gauze, thick gauze pads, and meticulously cleaned instruments of both obvious and obscure functionality and uniformly frightening when he considers where they might be going. Sudha gasps softly just as Alison's voice cuts off, and Castiel just stops himself from accidentally knocking over the tray; a glimpse of Vera's back shows she's not pleased with whatever she discovers.

"One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand," Njoya recites as she and Neeraja extend their arms for Sudha to hold when she shifts off the bed to crouch on the floor, eyes turned inward as her abdomen seems to visibly ripple. "Four one thousand, five one thousand...."

They get to sixty-three when Sudha relaxes and pushes herself back up on the mattress with a groan, tipping her head back against Rabin's shoulder as he wipes her forehead, murmuring encouragement in her ear.

"Two minutes forty-five apart, and about sixty seconds duration," Njoya tells Vera, and Castiel picks up the clipboard and pen, pleased to have something to do and not look at the dark blood on the towel. "Vera?"

"Good so far," Vera says, meeting Sudha's eyes and smiling. "It'll be soon now; just tell me when you feel like pushing."

"You'll know," Njoya says firmly. "I did this three times and have another one coming up in six months; trust me, this part pretty much just happens."

Sudha nods, closing her eyes, and Castiel glances over to see Alison relax, rubbing her temples impatiently and looking noticeably paler, and wonders when was the last time she slept a full night. Even with her shields, she's reacting to Sudha's pain, doubtless hoping to find some way to alleviate it with the strength of her mind alone. If she could take it herself, she doubtless would; instead, she reads the same fairy tales to Sudha that Sudha's grandmother did in her grandmother's voice.

Still smiling, Vera folds away the ruined towel and holds out a hand toward Castiel until he realizes she wants him to get another. Taking one from the stack, he approaches, stopping exactly the length of his reach and handing it to Vera, aware of Sudha, Neeraja, and Njoya all smiling at him indulgently for reasons unclear.

"Thanks," Vera says, laying it out before getting to her feet and stripping off her gloves. "Mind if I update the peanut gallery real fast?"

"Please," Sudha answers as Alison returns to the story, voice firm and clear, and Vera discards the gloves and a glance at Castiel indicates he should follow. Politely, he waits as Vera tells everyone Sudha is progressing very well in a voice so convincing that no one seems to doubt--except Nate, who watches her face and swallows hard.

"Hey." Castiel jerks his gaze down the hall to see Dean jogging toward them, red-faced and looking annoyed as he unbuttons his coat. "Am I too late?"

Castiel looks at Nate briefly before shaking his head. "Not at all."

"Dean," Vera says blankly. "What are you doing here?"

"Baby," Dean says, like it should be obvious. "Think she'd be okay with me saying hi real fast?"

Vera opens her mouth, then stops, and Dean checks those waiting before saying, "Also, want to ask you something--got a second?"

"Yeah," she says, and Castiel follows her and Dean down the hall, out of earshot of those waiting. "Seriously, Dean--"

"How's she doing?"

Vera sucks in a breath. "No change," she answers. "Bleeding's heavier than what I read-- _read_ , okay? This is all theory to me--but I _think_ it's in range. Whatever is going on, it's not happening--"

"Vera!" Vera turns at the frantic edge in Njoya's voice, jogging back down the hall and going in the door. Dean's hand on his arm stops him from following.

"That the reason for someone hitting pause on the world?"

"Slow motion," he says, and Dean's mouth quirks. "You asked if our god would know when the Misborn would be able to sense them; now we know. Within five minutes or less of when this started in unaltered linear time."

"Cutting it close, but can't argue with the results." Dean's hand tightens on his arm as his eyes travel down to see Nate. "And Nate's....here."

"He did the repairs on the rooms," Castiel says, and Dean's eyebrows jump.

"Did you ask?"

"He hoped it would help but wasn't sure if he did anything--unusual," Castiel replies. "And--he wanted the pregnant women to have nice rooms."

They both watch Nate murmur something to Cathy, red-eyed and curled up in her chair, before getting to his feet and drifting toward the door. "Good guy," Dean says, and Castiel reads the praise in understatement. 

Nate stiffens at whatever he sees, taking a step back. "Cas, Vera needs you," he says at the same time Deepika and Suma push by him and go inside. 

Exchanging a look with Dean, Castiel returns and swallows hard; the floor is splattered with blood, and Deepika, Suma, and Alison--all gloved--are on their knees frantically cleaning it up, jeans and woolen skirts stained dark. To his relief, Sudha, though very pale, is perfectly composed, breathing calmly, her only concession to the floor is one foot in Neeraja's lap and the other braced on the edge of the bloody mattress. She seems comfortable, however, which Castiel's blank mind assures him is to be encouraged when women are in labor.

"I apologize for the mess," Sudha starts, looking down and meeting Vera's eyes with a mischievous smile. "That was unexpected."

Vera grins back up at her; her surgical gown is splattered with blood. "This is where I double charge for the dry-cleaning." She calmly does something beneath the gown while Rabin and Sudha hold up the edge of her bloody skirt, and Sudha's face twists in obvious pain. "We'll get you cleaned up and towels changed in a minute, okay?"

Castiel doesn't back away, though he wants to; instead, he looks around the room, sees the biohazard bag, and quickly acquires it, picking up the bloodstained cloths and towels as they're discarded, then turning his head to see Nate and Cathy staring inside. Mercedes, he guesses, has retreated to the bathroom for reasons he is certain he doesn't want to think about at this moment.

"Come here," he says firmly and watches in satisfaction as both jump, coming in like they're unable to stop themselves. "Put on some gloves and take this bag," he tells Nate. "Bring them clean towels and collect those that are stained. Cathy, acquire clean linens and surgical gowns for everyone from...." He can't send her downstairs. He doesn't even know why she was excluded; if it was herself for Sudha's benefit or this area in general.

"Right, two doors down, supply closet," Nate tells him, pulling on the gloves and taking the bag before going to Alison. Looking relieved, Cathy flees to find supplies.

Vera takes a pillow from Rabin and drop it on the recently cleaned floor, taking several surgical pads from Nate to cover it and also for her own knees. Half-turning, Castiel sees Dean sitting with Mercedes, trying to be reassuring while darting vaguely horrified glances toward the room; he supposes it's one thing to see blood in the field (or while tending to corpses) but quite another to see it in this context.

Cathy returns with what looks like everything surgical or sheet related in the closet, setting it safely away from the remaining blood, and Vera looks at Sudha. 

"Up to you," she says, cocking her head. "I just want you out of that gown. It's warm enough that if you want to strip down, go for it. I'll do it, too: solidarity and everything."

Pausing, Castiel takes note of the temperature and realizes that it is warm enough; despite the freezing cold outside--and the infirmary's not entirely perfect heating system--the room is far warmer than anywhere else he's been in town.

Sudha thinks, glancing up at Rabin, whose expression seems to imply he doesn't care provided Sudha is comfortable. "For now I would prefer something to wear," she decides.

"Thank God," Alison says in relief, sitting back on her heels. "If you did, I'd have to do it for support, and seriously, not everyone looks as good as you do _au naturale_." Laughing quietly, Neeraja agrees.

"All right," Vera says, "everyone not Sudha's support, out for a few minutes. Cas, you're staying to hand me things."

"Njoya, Alison," Sudha says as Alison starts to get to her feet. "Stay, please."

"Wouldn't leave if you paid me," she assures her, and he watches her focus on Sudha, eyes going distant, and can almost feel her fumbling to find the right way to take away her pain before grimacing. "Any requests?"

They exchange a look before Sudha says, "New York, eight--nine years ago. The train was late, and people suddenly started singing that song--"

"Bizarre Love Triangle," Alison says with a grin.

"Yes, while we all watched the rats." Njoya gracefully moves for Alison, who sits on the chair and reaches for Sudha's hand. Rabin tightens his hold on Sudha, resting his chin on her shoulder; Neeraja tilts her head, eyes half-closed; and Njoya rests a hand on Alison's shoulder and shuts her eyes; as he and the others watch, he feels Alison's mind expand, encompassing those by the bed and move outward to those waiting outside the door. 

An subterranean scene opens, dark and rather uninspiring, a few rats chasing each other over the sunken, empty tracks and exhausted people littering one side; the impression is it's very late and everyone is very, very tired, and he wonders why Sudha chose this.

Then from the group clustered nearest the tracks, he hears women's voices start to sing, off-key and wavering, interspersed with laughter, slowly getting louder; faintly he sees a second tiny group--Neeraja, Alison, Sudha, and Rabin, all exhausted, Alison looking somewhat homicidal--and they all turn in surprise, their tired faces brightening. Sudha abruptly joins in; Neeraja and Alison begin to laugh as Rabin adds his voice to Sudha's and then they join in as well.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Cathy smiling, eyes distant, and outside the room, Deepika, Suma, and Mercedes are watching as well, worried expressions melting into pleasure as Alison infuses it with what they felt that night: tired, disappointed, feeling lost--and then unexpected joy found in an unlikely place: an _a capella_ rendition of techno-pop to three very determined rats in the New York subway.

"Cas, get me that bowl," Vera says softly, pulling him out, and for a moment, he almost resents it before he remembers his duty. Looking at Sudha, the contrast is striking. He didn't realize--though Vera and the others must have--how tense she was. He supposes Alison couldn't risk this before when Sudha's attention was needed for her body, but from the way the lines on her face ease, this is the only way she can take away Sudha's pain.

In the real world, Vera helps a compliant Sudha out of her gown and into a clean one, and Castiel hands her fresh gloves and then holds the bowl--the water is still hot, to his lack of surprise--as Vera quickly and professionally cleans away the worst of the blood. Rabin surfaces enough to help Sudha to the chair while Castiel and Nate strip the soiled padding and sheets from the bed and remaking the bed with fresh layers of padding. Rabin takes his place again, Sudha settling between his spreads legs and leaning back against him, strong arms wrapping around her just above the swell of her belly as he nuzzles her hair, murmuring encouragement and comfort.

Keeping his gaze firmly averted, he notes with a chill that the thick pile of padding below Sudha is already soaked with blood. Intellectually, he's aware it's not as much as it looks like--and he can calculate from what he saw when he entered the room exactly how much she lost--but it seems like far more.

Vera sends Njoya, Neeraja, and Alison to get cleaned up as she reattaches the monitors, checking Sudha carefully and making light conversation until they return. "Njoya," she says, "watch for me while I get cleaned up? Yell if anything happens."

She nods, eyes on Sudha. "Got it."

At her glance, Castiel follows Vera to the small bathroom two doors away. There, he helps her strip off her gown and blood-splattered t-shirt (Vera points to a bag that she sensibly packed, in preparation for this, he assumes) and gets her a clean one, and then helps her into a fresh gown, tucking her pinned hair beneath the bright blue cap. Turning to the sink, she turns on the water and then braces her hands on the sides, head dropping.

"I think...." Her voice breaks. "I think the placenta might be rupturing. Incomplete, if it is, but...."

He nods. "How long--never mind. The child?"

"Seems fine," she answers. "Monitor isn't showing any problems. I was thinking an ultrasound, but I'm not sure I'd know what I was seeing looking right at it." Taking a deep breath, she thoroughly cleans her hands and arms to the elbow, and Castiel picks up her gloves, holding them out for her; routine can be comfort, but it can also be a reminder. She's a practitioner nurse with vast experience, but she is also his and Dean's doctor and their faith in her abilities has been proven.

"You can do this," he tells her firmly; neither alcohol nor drugs are a wise way to offer reassurance, so he must offer it with his voice alone and be believed. 

With a faint smile that doesn't reach the worried eyes, she lets him glove her. "I can do this," she repeats, mouth trembling. "But I could really use some help here. Any help."

He nods. "That's why I'm here."

* * *

When they return, Dean is sitting outside the room alone, right hand fisted on his thigh. Castiel stops while Vera goes back inside, crouching to look at him. "The bubble didn't affect you."

"No." Castiel sees him abruptly stuff his hand into his jacket pocket. "So it's all of Kansas, you think?"

"If I were guessing--and I am--it reaches just short of the border, where the Misborn might be able to sense it," he agrees. "But that is a guess."

"Makes sense." Dean sighs. "Need me to do anything?"

The slightly desperate edge in his voice tells Castiel that is less a question than a demand. Looking inside, he assures Sudha is comfortable, and notices that Cathy and Nate are surreptitiously removing the blood-soaked pads that Neeraja immediately replaces. His mind helpfully scrolls through the history of childbirth, the greatest dangers; cervical rupture, placental rupture, uterine rupture, all leading to hemorrhaging sometimes fast and sometimes slow but too often fatal.

Then Alison looks out into the hall and stabs them with a glare. "Get some gloves, get a towel, and get in here," she snarls, and bemused, Castiel watches Dean jump to his feet and take two steps before stopping in sheer horror. 

"You could help with bagging the hazardous material," Castiel tells his rigid back before Dean can think of something to say that would not in any way be appropriate for the room of a woman in labor. Gently, he pushes on his back to get him moving as Vera goes to the tray; he should be there to bring it to her, he remembers, and pushes Dean harder until they're both inside the door.

He stiffens, and Vera stops just short of the tray.

There's a moment of utter stillness, and he senses something surrounding them, waiting, held barely contained. Castiel searches the room quickly: Nate and Cathy are occupied with their bags; Rabin, eyes closed, his forehead resting on Sudha's shoulder, is oblivious; to Sudha's left, Njoya and Neeraja are speaking quietly; Suma and Deepika are arranging a pile of clean sheets, towels, and padding while Mercedes opens a new box of gauze; all unaware.

Alison isn't; she's looking around the room warily; Dean is tense in front of him; Sudha, however, is smiling, looking relieved, and despite her sickly pallor, her face almost seems to glow. 

And Vera--

"I can do that," she says to someone, tilting her head back, and he sees the tear tracks on her face. "Yeah, I understand."

"No," he says belatedly. "No, you can't--"

"Gonna be fine, now shut up. My business, Cas," she says, not looking at him. "Yes, do it. Now."

There's no time to move and it's far too late in any case; the world dissolves around them, infinite space unfolding into reality like a vast stone dropped into the smallest of puddles, ripples trapped within the confines of this room. The door shuts behind them, and a scorching wind blows through the room that softens into spring warmth, the scent of flowers and spice filling the air. 

The world trembles as a god--perhaps the greatest of them--manifests fully upon the earth, their godhead revealed; dimly, he wonders how any of them--even him--have survived it.

Vera turns to look at them, brown eyes vast, peppered with infinite stars, expressionless as she surveys them before dismissing them from her attention and crossing to a glowing Sudha. One dark hand rests on her ashen cheek for a moment, and Sudha smiles up at her, love and joy written across her face.

"You never doubted," the goddess says softly.

"Of course not," Sudha answers, smile widening impossibly. "I think--however--that we are ready now."

"Very soon, yes." Crouching gracefully, she looks into Sudha's eyes. "Rest for a moment, little one. We shall not abandon you."

Sudha nods trustfully, closing her eyes and leaning back against Rabin. Without turning around, the goddess raises a hand. "Cassiel, you who are the balance and the karma, you will stand witness for us."

"I haven't been Cassiel in a very long time," he answers, eyes trained on Vera's too-fragile, mortal form that holds the infinite within. "Why do you invoke us now?"

She twists around, and the expressionless face regards him thoughtfully, but for a moment, he sees a flicker of humor, _What a very stupid question_. In retrospect, he supposes that it was.

Inexplicably, Dean suddenly moves in front of him, left hand closing over his hip; it seems he was paying attention to procedure during Andy's wake. "This is where you tell me who you are, and more importantly, where the fuck you've been."

Sudha winces, looking embarrassed. "Dean--"

"What he said," Alison interrupts, and as the goddess turns to look at her, Castiel shares a helpless look with Sudha. Somewhere (where is she?), Teresa just realized her life partner is challenging a god but can't do anything since she's trapped in time. It will not help her mood when she finally sees Alison again.

"Impressive," the goddess says colorlessly, and with a start of alarm, he wonders what Alison just tried to do. "But pointless; you cannot harm us."

"You sure about that?" Alison answers pleasantly, ignoring Sudha's tight grip on her hand, and stiffens as the goddess lifts her chin. No human can win a straight fight with a god: Tantalus is only one of the places those go who even try.

From here, he can see Alison begin to tremble, then her fingers close around the edge of her chair, knuckles going white. Castiel's aware of a sense of growing pressure, filling the room to bursting as she surrounds Sudha's fragile mind with herself, protection and defense and utter determination coloring it in shades of red-green and hot gold. To get through it, Alison will need to be torn apart. He remembers the sweep of Alison's mind through the town the day the Croats attacked Ichabod for the children; then, panic and still uncertain skill left her groping for what to do, but raw power she doesn't lack, and she's never lacked will. 

Psyche counted a million pieces of grain with an army of ants at Aphrodite's jealous order; Orpheus played his lyre until his fingers bled until he could step over Cerberus's sleeping body into the Underworld and regain his wife; no one, even a god, can claim victory against the fullness of human will when it's set against them. Alison may die for it, but she won't break.

Abruptly, the pressure ends, but Alison doesn't move, even to wipe away the trickle of blood from her nose. Despite the expressionless stare, he thinks the goddess might be surprised.

"Do you wish us to save her?" the goddess asks, and it may not be a concession, but Castiel decides to take it as one anyway. "We are at the end of our strength; we can destroy you or assure she and her child survive; you decide."

"I know the value of a promise made by a god," Alison answers, voice strained but no less determined. "It's worth exactly as much as who has the power to enforce it."

"Alison," Castiel says, relieved to still have a voice, even if the tight grip of Dean's hand makes it inadvisable to move. "She asked for Cassiel to witness her; we _are_ the enforcement of covenant."

"You aren't an angel anymore," she answers, eyes on the goddess. "What the hell can you do?"

This is difficult to explain. "Our--name--is enough; she invoked it. This is natural law; if she meant to break covenant, she wouldn't have spoken it at all." If she meant to break it--if she even could--she certainly wouldn't have come all the way here to do it.

"A human reason, then," the goddess says, tilting her head curiously. "When the world was young, before you were so much as a thought, we danced upon the earth and a mortal man saw us; he pleased us. We laid with him by the _Kali Ganga_ and allowed ourselves to be quickened with his seed." Castiel raises an eyebrow in surprise and just bites back a comment; this would not be the time. "When in the fullness of time, he married, his wife was barren, but their love was such that he would not set her aside. She came to us and offered herself on our altar, her life to give birth to our child." She looks at Sudha, and even Castiel can feel the fierce, protective tenderness. "Your many-times great grandmother, firstborn but not last; for the gift of bearing our child, her womb was made fertile and her labors eased. She loved them all without reserve, child: her first daughter was ours, but that made her no less hers."

Sudha nods, eyes shimmering.

"That daughter grew strong of limb and great of beauty and wisdom; many contended for her hand, and by her parents' will and ours, the one who would have her was the one who pleased her most. She bore many strong sons and daughters, but to honor us, one was brought to our temple and consecrated to us in thanks. So it has been since: the first daughter of the first daughter was given to us, their lives ours, given freely, to do with as we would. Until now, we have not called upon you; we need you now." She rests a hand on Sudha's abdomen. "When Lucifer was uncaged, his first act was to eliminate all mortals who may hold a god without harm; your line he exterminated immediately, for our crimes against him were great, and your line offended him above all others. He knew we would never bow for him, so would make us watch his slaughter before he took our life himself. That is our burden, child, and not of your doing."

"I would ask--hope," she corrects herself, "to know--have we broken your will? We are far from home, and came here for earthly advancement; did we do wrong? Are we what you--the children of your daughter, did we disappoint you? Is that why--why I was barren? Because my actions were ones that...that denied your will for me?"

The room changes, a sweep of scorching heat, but around Sudha, it remains a warm spring wind. Cupping Sudha's cheek, she meets the wet brown eyes.

"With your own will, you grew to womanhood, sought education and enlightenment; with your wisdom, you chose the man among those your parents offered you not for lust or fleeting beauty, but his character and suitability as companion of your life, and from that grew love; due to your intelligence, you were offered opportunities to enrich your life and the children you hoped to bear, and you took them; you doubted, you questioned, and you came away with your faith stronger. Your heart is open and warm, your generosity freely given, you offer your strength to others without reserve. If we could have laid the path for you to follow, daughter, this is what it would have been. Few gods can boast such children as ours; we were envied." She leans closer, forehead touching Sudha's. "We have run for eons, and our time is almost done--"

"No!" Sudha says fiercely, pulling away from Rabin and throwing her arms around the goddess, and Castiel has the pleasure of seeing a goddess looked expressionlessly stunned. "Stay, we will...." her voice breaks off thickly, tears running down her cheeks, and Castiel feels Dean's hand tighten on his hips. "Lucifer will not win. We just need time."

Slowly--as if she's not sure how to do it--she wraps her arms around Sudha's back, holding her as she sobs, and Castiel is startled by a tightness in his chest in response to Sudha's grief.

Then, with startling tenderness, she eases Sudha up and smiles at her, sweet and warm. "Sweet girl," she whispers, "the road I travel was once written and its ending known; I walked it without regret. It was your call I heard, and in answering you, I unwrote it, and together, we write it anew, you and I; now I give unto you its end. Hush," she whispers, wiping Sudha's tears away. "You have loved me as your god all your life, and I loved you as my child; now, you will love me as your daughter, and...of all the world, in all of time, I could not have chosen better the woman who I will love as my mother. My time is almost done now, but only now.

"Now rest," she whispers, touching Sudha's forehead. "This will take all your strength and mine to complete, and it will be done. Rest."

Leaning back into Rabin's oblivious arms, she nods, tear-streaked face at peace.

"Cassiel," she says without turning around. "Dean Winchester. Alison of Ichabod. Will you bear witness to covenant fulfilled?"

"Yes," Alison says quietly, squeezing Sudha's limp hand. "I will."

"Yes," Castiel says, acknowledging the name without protest. "But we prefer to be addressed by Castiel; the name is ours and we claim it, but it has been long and long since we have been them."

"As you wish," she says. "Dean Winchester, we await your decision." 

Dean says, "Okay. One question though--is Vera gonna be okay? She's not one of yours; is this gonna kill her?"

She turns around, eyes flickering to Castiel in something that may--with an effort--be interpreted as amusement, before looking at Dean. "This is covenant," she answers slowly, making no effort not to imply Dean is being foolish and Castiel has been remiss in his education. "She made herself part of its fulfillment. There will be damage, but we do not stay long, and we shall heal it when we leave. She will be unimpaired."

"Just so that's clear." Dean's hand loosens reluctantly on Castiel's hip. "What do you need us to do?"

"Support her," the goddess answers, and after a glance at Castiel, Dean goes to her other side, looking around the room uneasily at everyone absorbed in random tasks, oblivious to them. "Castiel, please join me. My Sudha," she says softly, and the unexpected tenderness makes his chest tight, "awaken. It is time."

Crossing to the bed, he kneels beside her; it's impossible to see Vera in that body. Despite her efforts, her true form overwhelms it entirely, rich blue skin fading the blue surgical scrubs into insignificance; two of her arms gently reach to spread and arrange Sudha's legs while two others ease her to the very edge of the mattress and provide an anchor, Rabin a support and bulwark behind her.

"We are at the end of our strength," she tells him expressionlessly. "We will require yours."

"I don't have--" He stops as her eyes meet his. "We shall do what we can."

She inclines her head before turning to Sudha, another arm reaching beneath her, and Castiel averts his eyes but has no comforting illusions on what is occurring when Sudha gasps in pain, grabbing Dean's and Alison's offered arms. Resting one of her hands on Sudha's stomach, the goddess' eyes grow distant.

"There will be great pain," she tells Sudha. 

"I can bear it easily," she answers, biting her lip as a fresh well of blood spills onto the floor and allowing Rabin to help support her weight. "I’m ready."

"So you are." Sudha's belly ripples alarmingly, and Sudha chokes back a scream at the next gush of blood. "She is being contrary; your daughter's will is a match for your own."

"Wonder where she got that from," Dean mutters, and a pale Alison exchanges a smirk with Dean, for neither of them have any sense of self-preservation whatsoever. Then Dean stills, gritting his teeth as Sudha's grip on his arm becomes an order of magnitude tighter.

Castiel watches Sudha's rippling belly, distorting on multiple planes in response to the changes being enacted on her body both to safely bear a child and to assure her future fertility, should she choose to have more; correcting the flaws to the uterus and cervix, manually beginning the chemical process to hasten labor that was partially in abeyance due to her body's confusion with the contrast between her actual body and the miracle that made it possible for her to become pregnant. Further corrections, part of covenant with Sudha but not specific in request, simply to benefit Sudha from nothing more than love and gratitude, are enacted with love and care. Dean and Alison match Sudha's breathing instinctively, the rhythm carrying her through the agonizing physical pain that accompanies remaking a human body in such a fundamental way.

When the goddess's arm emerges from beneath Sudha, it's bloody to the elbow.

"Now," she says to Sudha, "bear down; it will be quick." She moves slightly. "My time is almost done. Castiel, you must be the one to deliver it when it leaves her body." 

He looks at Sudha in alarm, and her grimace of pain turns into a glare. "There is nothing there that should be unfamiliar to you, Cas. Your female vessels were no different from I."

He ignores Dean and Alison's strangled snickers; their gasps tells him Sudha dealt with that. Yes, they were no different, but he was never within them during this particular event, and vast is the difference between memory, theory, and very messy reality. Moving over, he waits for Sudha to shift from the bed to crouch over the blood-soaked padding, glancing up when a clean padding is offered by a smiling Njoya.

"Thank you," he says, taking them and wondering how they will remember this evening. Spreading one on top of the blood, then another when it quickly grows saturated, he makes a thick pad of the third, aware of Njoya hovering with clean towels, Deepika with the bowl of eternally clean but now simply warm water, and Nate with a stack of cloths. For the baby, he suspects, who will doubtless be rather...fluidy.

At Sudha's gasp, the goddess reaches impatiently to place his hands in the correct position beneath her, just above the padding, and Castiel watches in horrified fascination as a red-stained yellow-brown lump emerge from Sudha's body. "That's a baby?"

"You said," Sudha grits out, "that you knew of these things from your memories!"

"None of them could actually _see_ this part!" he answers incredulously, realizing his hands are shaking. Sudha's response is a low growl that becomes a shocked gasp and slowly, more emerges--blood and mucus-covered lumps he realizes belatedly might be shoulders (hopefully), then with a determined snarl, the remainder emerges so abruptly that Castiel is holding a tiny, slippery lump of humanity that at some point will be the size of Sudha or greater. Looking at it-- _her_ , the external sexual characteristics indicate female--he honestly can't imagine how on earth that is possible.

The puckered face clenches as tiny lips part, and time stops entirely.

"We must go," the goddess whispers into his ear. "What Sudha remembers is her choice; let her have it. We trust you all will respect it."

"We will," he answers as the baby lies unmoving in his hand, on the cusp of her first breath. "You have many mortal lines; those of Durga and Pavarti and Devi, they who were of and also Shakti, Great Divine Mother; those when you were but an aspect of one or all; and those who are yours alone. Those lines you have chosen for avatars and vessels both, but hers you never touched; why--now, of all times--did you hear her?"

Her eyebrow raises.

"When you dance upon the earth, none can deny you whatever you may want of them, but you are not so careless as to give them more than that," he says softly. "No one, mortal or god, would ever take another after they knew you. None could compare."

"Cassiel would not have agreed," she observes dispassionately. "The balance, he said, must be maintained."

"Cassiel was a...." He bites back several uncomplimentary observations on Cassiel; they never understood passion, and they certainly would never have walked through fire just because they thought it was interesting. "We believed the same, even then; we just would not admit it. If you wish for our apology at this late date, you have it; you and Amy would have much to discuss." He tilts his head. "You have not answered my question."

"When the world was young," she says, "by the _Kali Ganga_ , I lay with a mortal man unlike any before him or any after." She tilts her head. "I quickened, yes, but no mortal seeded what I carried."

Castiel stills, almost forgetting the warm, motionless bundle in his hands. "What?" 

"I allowed it to remain, however, and in the fullness of time, that mortal man met a woman whose beauty was in her strength and will, worthy of this gift. She came to my temple, and I gave her what she sought." The stern mouth softens. "When the world was young, he looked down upon the earth and saw me dance; he sought me by the river that day in secrecy, wearing the borrowed flesh of a mortal man. I have known many lovers, Castiel, mortal and divine, but only one who would risk the laws of Creation simply for the joy of knowing me. You are correct; when he came to me again, when I permitted him to find me, he told me none could compare." The faint sense of satisfaction is unmistakable. "But he did try. You see, at the time, it was supposed to be a joke."

He looks at Sudha, stunned. "I would have known...." Then he remembers who he's talking about and starts to laugh: of course. That would be part of the joke, yes, one that no one would even know existed. That would explain why she tried to kill him; the only wonder is he survived that long. "I better understand why you were displeased with him."

"We are the Destroyer," she says quietly, looking at Sudha, the tenderness as unmistakable as the fierce love. "But we are the Creator as well; it is fitting that this be our final work upon the earth."

He almost asks her to stay; two dawns from now, the barrier will rise again, and she'll be safe behind it. Then he dismisses it; she would never be content to hide and watch her people slaughtered, and combat would risk them becoming Lucifer's. "Are you--"

"We were, are, and will be the last." She looks at him. "The Misborn sought me in time; I ran. I did not allow them to catch me; my death would be of my choosing, not Lucifer's; my people are _mine_ , he will not touch them; I would give him nothing." She pauses, eyes turning inward for a moment. "Wherever I went, they would find me; no matter how many I killed, more would replace them...and I heard him."

Castiel straightens. "Who?"

"The impossible," she answers. "He asked the question, and through all of space and time, I heard it. I followed his call and manifested before him to give him my response." She rises gracefully, and he watches her armor materialize around her like a second skin, mercury and onyx and living fire, a gleaming sword at her side and khaṭvāṅga in her hand. "My answer is yes. There I began the road I chose to walk. I must be the last, Castiel, that much has not changed; it was to be my end as well, but that--that, I changed myself." 

Those words: the mess, she said that, too. "What are you doing?"

"I must go," she says. "It must draw its first breath, and I must learn what it is to be mortal from first principles." Her gaze drifts to the child in his hands, almost dubious. "It shall be different."

With an effort, he gathers his scattered thoughts. "If they chase you, where will you go that they can't find you while you descend?"

"Where our road began, of course. Lucifer looked forward and back to find us, to hunt us," she says. "But no one can see the impossible, even Lucifer, and the impossible hides us all, now as well as then. He will help me, as he helped her first." She tilts her head, looking at him. "This town protected our daughter and will protect us as well; for one score years, the earth will repay our debt with plenty."

"They will be grateful," he says honestly. "On their behalf, I thank you."

The dark eyes narrow, and she then says the most ominous words that can ever be spoken by a god "We owe you a debt for your work today as well, Castiel."

Castiel fights to remain still; it was all going so well until now. "You don't, truly." This never ends well for mortals, that much he's well aware.

"We shall pay it now." Before he can think of a way to stop her (there isn't one, but he would try), burning fingers touch his forehead, and he's aware of nothing but agony, burned alive for all of time. Then it's over; not even the memory of pain remains. To his own surprise, he's still kneeling with all parts accounted for and not at all crispy fried. "The debt is paid," she says, and he looks at her sharply; the satisfaction in her voice is unmistakable. "It's not over yet, Castiel of Chitaqua; it's only just begun."

Abruptly, the room is in motion; Sudha's panting, Dean and Alison helping her back onto the bed, and the tiny girl in his hands begins to wail as if she's been waiting all of time for just that (possibly in shock, possibly simply because she's a baby and they do that a great deal).

"First principles," he tells her, smiling helplessly, and wide brown eyes slit open to regard him with startling clarity and not a little doubt, a glittering spark deep within. "This would be those, yes. You'll be fine."

"Cas," Sudha says urgently, and Castiel quickly takes the offered sheet, wrapping the baby carefully before setting it in Sudha's waiting arms. Despite her exhaustion, her face lights up, cradling her daughter as Rabin stares at her in patent shock. "Sweet girl," she whispers tenderly, stroking the tiny cheek, utterly indifferent to blood and--other things. "She's beautiful, is she not?"

Dean's ridiculous grin tells him that apparently, the question is not ironic. "Gorgeous," Dean agrees with unmistakable sincerity as the others abruptly crowd around the bed. "Just like her mom."

Castiel looks at Alison and is immediately relieved at her dubious expression before she quickly re-arranges her features into agreement. "Very," she says. "You and Rabin pick a name?"

Sudha, investigating beneath the sheet and looking delighted at the tiny foot, nods. "Jaya," she answers. "We decided on Jaya."

"I like it," Vera says, and Castiel turns, startled, aware of all the eyes in the room now fixed on her as well. She looks very pale but is still upright, but there's no way to know how long that will last. "Why is everyone looking at me like that?"

Nate opens his mouth and shuts it with a click at Castiel's warning look. "Nothing at all," he says clearly, and thinks at Alison, _Can you warn everyone not to react, please?_ The relevant people should understand her easily, after all; perhaps they'll simply assume...he has no idea how to explain Vera speaking Hindi. Hopefully, no one will ask.

Alison gives him an incredulous look but nods, and Castiel is relieved to see everyone make themselves very busy.

"Move, Cas. Sudha, I need to check you and the baby out, okay?" Her eyes travel over everyone, pausing to blink at Dean a few times before shaking her head as if to clear it. "Hint: everyone leave but Sudha and three people she asks to stay. Cas, don't even try: I need you here."

He nods helplessly. "Of course," he agrees. "I should definitely stay while everyone who Sudha doesn't require here leaves." Looking at Vera carefully, he tries to decide how much time she has. "Dean, if you would, perhaps Karl or Lewis or Dolores should be told? About the baby."

Dean looks between him and Vera. "Good idea," he agrees. "I'll do that."

* * *

It's nearly forty-five minutes--after two Apgars, a check of Sudha as well as the administration of an opiate, and the arrival of Karl (already warned to pretend Vera is speaking English)--before Vera frowns, rubbing her forehead distractedly, and Castiel has just enough time to catch her as she abruptly loses consciousness.

The next room over has been fully furnished, and after they've settled Vera, Alison excuses herself to join them. Her expression watching Sudha with her daughter bonding was probably more revealing than she realized, and he knows Dean saw it as well; the only question is which of them (Alison or Teresa) is so affected.

Vera wakes briefly to growl a warning (in Hindi) before going back to sleep. Alison raises an eyebrow. "Guess carrying a god around makes you sensitive."

"Is there any damage?" The goddess said she would repair it, and in this case, he believes it without reservation. If she needed to keep Vera functional to care for Sudha, however, the healing would probably be delayed.

"You tell me." Her hand reaches for his without hesitation, fingers cold, and Castiel folds them against his palm to warm them as he searches Vera's mind. The divine touch of a god is subtle but unmistakable; he shows Alison how to recognize it as it does its work with care as Vera sleeps. He also searches Alison's mind as she concentrates on Vera, looking for any sign of damage from direct contact with a god's power, and is less than surprised to find all is on order. "Want me to ask Haruhi to get Amanda?"

He raises his eyebrow, but Alison looks back blandly, and he decides it's pointless to even ask. "I think Amanda would appreciate it." 

"How long?" Dean asks from the door, and as Alison concentrates on finding Haruhi, Castiel goes to join him. 

"Twelve hours at most," he replies. "Probably at dawn."

"And she'll be okay?"

"She was careful, but her power was also greatly diminished, and the time she spent in Vera brief to complete the covenant," he answers. "If she was planning to descend, she'd want to burn out as much as possible first in any case; that would explain her gift to Ichabod, at least. We should have requested she use some of it to perform a miracle and perhaps fix whatever issue with wastewater is requiring the creation of latrines."

"Wish I'd thought of that." Dean looks curious. "Why would she want to burn out her power first?"

"Divinity is too small," he explains. "It's...limited. A human soul is in potential all things and in actuality many things, sometimes contradictory, in succession or all at once; the divine can only ever be divine." Dean's expression tells him he should try again. "A god is a chair--a very nice chair, perhaps, an extraordinary chair--but that's all they can be and can only do those things that a chair can do; a human soul can be furniture that never existed before or will again."

"Furniture."

"I've been thinking we should take our bed here back to Chitaqua," he admits, and Dean starts to laugh, but Castiel doesn't miss the lines around his mouth, the shadow in the green eyes. "It's a very nice bed."

"It can go in the new room," Dean agrees, grinning at him and earning them both a loud sigh from Alison. "So what, it--interferes with the soul?"

He thinks how to put this. "To become mortal--much like becoming a god--requires a leap of faith. Your burnt offering is everything, leaving nothing behind; only then can you become something else." Like the rack, he thinks but doesn't say, in intent if not in practicalities, and once again, he's unwillingly reminded of the other Castiel, who burned away his own divinity in exchange for godhead.

Amanda arrives quickly enough that Castiel assumes she only took enough time to put on her boots (while running, he guesses), flannel thrown over a tank top and glaring at them all suspiciously. Castiel leaves the explanation to Dean, the gist of which is 'falling barrier' and 'because magic and maybe the earth' without any mention of gods, a divine birth, or Vera as temporary vessel; it shouldn't be believable--in fact, he's not even sure it makes sense--but he almost believes it himself when Dean is done.

(He hopes the earth doesn't take offense at being blamed. He should speak to Teresa, just in case.)

It probably helps that Amanda loses interest immediately after 'she'll be fine when she wakes up'. "Awesome," she says, eyes on Vera as she retrieves a chair and pulls it up to the bed. "I'll keep watch."

"Inform me when she awakens," he tells Amanda's back, and she waves a hand to acknowledge and also shoo them all out. 

Looking amused, Alison goes back to see if Sudha needs anything and meets Dolores just coming out, tired face wreathed in a smile. Inside, Castiel sees Sudha coaxing Cathy close enough to hold the baby, and seeing her expression--grief and tentative pleasure--he hopes Sudha and Alicia were both correct that this might help ease her pain.

"Shower here isn't restricted," Dolores tells him. "There's some sweats in there--Karl's, I think--so wear those when you go back to headquarters."

"Thank you," he says in relief as Nate gets up from one of the chairs. "Are you going back now?"

"Yeah, I need to make sure James and Mira are okay," he says. "You need me to do anything?"

"Confirm with Mel that Dean and I are off-duty until an hour after dawn," he says, ignoring Dean's frown. "Also, remind her that we need to meet with the team leaders two hours before noon and to tell those coming in or going off duty tonight. The patrol schedule should already reflect the changes."

"Got it," he says, and Dean nods absent dismissal when Nate turns to him for any further instruction, which has the effect of requiring Castiel to hide his smile. 

As Nate jogs down the hall, Dean tips his head toward the stairs. "Let's get you cleaned up. You ready?"

* * *

They take the back stairs to the admin section, but it's obvious the time bubble has dispersed by the sheer level of noise. Stripping down in the chilly bathroom--Sudha's room remains warm and will doubtless continue to be until she's released from the infirmary--he steps beneath the lukewarm spray.

"So you were really armed," Dean remarks, gathering up the plethora of weapons and checking the small jars as Castiel ducks beneath the hot spray of water. "Powdered cold iron?"

"Quickest way to deal with glamor without shedding blood or having the correct plants on hand," he says, and hears Dean sneeze. "As well as a simple way to break fey bindings. Fey can manipulate perception of time, not time itself, but it can be hard to tell the difference, and I wanted to be prepared. The strongest of them can deceive even an angel if they're very determined and very, very suicidal." He hears Dean wipe his nose and make a surprised noise, encouraging him to elaborate. "Your exposure has been to the lesser ones and those that have bred with mortals; the great courts passed beyond the veil millennia ago."

"Why does that sound like foreshadowing?" Dean asks suspiciously, and he can almost see him glancing around worriedly for any stray royal fey.

"If you are asking if they've returned, yes," he answers, and he hears something fall that he hopes isn't the powered cold iron; that is not easy to make. "They are not ones to miss such an opportunity. Are they interfering with mortals? No, they do learn from their mistakes, a genuine surprise; they've never displayed common sense before, but truly, all things are indeed possible. The great queens, from what I've gathered, have issued strict warnings; if only we could convince them to come and gather up the brownies, but depressingly, they've been here too long."

"Queens?"

"In general, the fey are strictly matriarchal," he answers. "That would be why you hear few stories of young women being tempted beneath the earth to dally forever for the pleasure of the court. Not so terrible a fate, most would think, until you consider the length of 'forever', the performance limitations of the mortal body, and the lack of same in a fey. In case you're curious, it rarely ends well for the man in question, unless he is fortunate enough to have a mortal woman love him enough to forgive him his trespasses and comes herself to claim him."

Dean snorts a laugh. "Never thought of that."

"Men rarely do," he replies. "If you feel tempted, I beg you consider how the fey might react to carnal disappointment and plan accordingly."

"Talk about pressure...." Dean trails off, and Castiel hears him packing up the weapons before there's an unsettled silence. "That wasn't your goddess, the one at the church," Dean says abruptly, and Castiel almost drops the washcloth. "I knew her, though."

That is one way to put it. "You did, yes."

"I’m thinking her name right now," Dean says, an edge in his voice. "But I can't say it--"

"It's deliberate; she masked it, but she could not--and would not--inhibition recognition in this case." He pauses in scrubbing; blood is pernicious. "If you try hard enough, you should be able to break it, but I don't recommend it, at least until the barrier rises again."

"Why?"

There are many reasons a god would do so, but none of them are relevant now. "Practicality, I suspect. If Lucifer were to search the minds of those in attendance, none could reveal her under any of her names, even by accident. The gods are supposed to be confirmed dead two years ago; any hint of her appearance now would..." 

"Be bad," Dean finishes for him since he's honestly not sure. "It's easier to find her with a name, yeah, I remember."

"It was a risk, what she did for Sudha, that much was clear," he says honestly. "Gods generally don't mask themselves without a very good reason, especially among their worshippers." 

"But we all know _a_ god was here."

"He can't search my mind, yours is restricted by mine, and I wish him well prying anything from Alison's mind," he answers, remembering Alison's expression: a strong will, dangerously strong, the kind of will the Host liked least in humans. Like Dean, breaking it was impossible without knowing exactly the right place to strike at the right time, and like Dean, the consequences of doing that were unpredictable at best and disastrous at worst (case in point, Dean Winchester: please turn to page ten in your non-existent textbooks on what not to do and who not to do it to. It's a very short book, and Dean wrote most of it). "For the others--there's no proof of it being a god, just one who appears a god. A name confirms it, especially one spoken, and it is far more noticeable and liable to get his attention." In any case, a very minor god who happened to escape the purge would be very different than knowing that this one, somehow, was here when she shouldn't be.

Dean seems to accept that, for now at least. "So, Nate--if he didn't do anything to the room, why was he here?"

"The fact he was excluded from the time bubble implies he was needed when Sudha gave birth, and there's no reason I can think of unless it was something to do with his work on her room. For what, I don't know, so you needn't ask." He thinks for a moment. "However, it would probably be wise for Sudha to remain there with her child until the barrier rises. It's possible that may protect them both, on the extraordinarily unlikely chance the Misborn were aware of the time suspension here and intuit the possible reason for it."

"Right. And you were probably to do the witness thing," Dean says. "But why the rest of them--okay, scratch that, maybe Sudha needed them. So that leaves me. Why wasn't I suspended or whatever?"

Castiel hesitates. "I don't know," he answers slowly. "But--it could be a coincidence, of course."

"Spit it out," Dean says, a sigh in his voice.

"She didn't manifest until you entered the room. The first time you entered the room," he says, adding quickly, "but that might also have been the first time everyone excluded from the time bubble was within it as well. I didn't think to watch for that."

The silence outside the shower isn't reassuring, and Castiel distracts himself with undistracted cleaning.

"She was different," Dean says finally, grudgingly. "Not like--when we met. I wouldn't have thought she's give a shit about anyone."

"You never worshipped her," he answers. "The aspect you knew was but an aspect; she's a god always, but not one to you and never yours. Four people in that room were hers, and Sudha of her own line; she loves them. That's what gods do; they can't help it."

Rinsing off, Castiel considers how to broach this particular subject and decides simply to say it. "While we were out of time, she spoke to me." In the interests of honesty, he adds, "She also said she owed me a debt as well as Ichabod, but--"

The shower door is open before he realizes Dean even moved, the water off, and he finds himself pressed against the icy tile, Dean's hands clamped around his face as he peers into his eyes. "What did she do to you?"

"I don't know." Dean steps back, looking him over as if--what? "What are you looking for?"

"If she has a sick sense of humor," Dean answers grimly, and at his gesture, Castiel turns around, resigning himself to Dean being Dean. "So far so good," he says grudgingly, and Castiel snorts as he turns back around. "You feel--anything different?"

"Not really." Without the warmth of the water, however, it's getting colder. "Dean, she was paying a debt; for all I know, she assured I live four score years in health."

"How can that go wrong?" Dean demands. "Like health but without your feet or something?"

Castiel smiles, offering a silent apology to Nate; he wasn't up to the standard of Dean Winchester, but then again, no one could be. 

"What?"

"Nothing," he answers, recalling himself. "Can I finish please? Also, it's getting cold."

Dean's eyes narrow, but he nods, going back out and waiting impatiently outside the now not-quote closed shower door; in case, he supposes, something happens, though what, he has no idea. 

"So you said she spoke to you," Dean starts. "Anything I need to know? Put it another way--do I need to know, maybe should know, or doesn't matter and it'll wait?"

"The last for the most part," he admits. "And some in the second category, I'm not sure. Nothing that affects what's happening now, in any case. There was a reason she told me out of time and let me remember it after without requesting I conceal it--if she had, I would have told you immediately--but...what she said, it seemed familiar, and I'm not sure why." He tries to recall the mess again and as always, frustration is his only reward. "If it helps, most of it was--personal."

"I get what Alison meant about 'do I need to know'," he answers thoughtfully, and relieved, Castiel smiles. "Need to know is always shitty, ignorance is bliss. Never thought I'd say that."

Ducking under the spray, Castiel finishes rinsing away the soap and comes out; the chill of the room should inhibit any desire to remain unclothed, but Dean's gaze keeps making him forget that.

"You ready to get back?" he asks, tipping his head toward the door, and Castiel nods. As Dean passes him, he notes Dean's right hand seems very attached to being pocketed. "Let's go."

* * *

Kara is working front desk, and Dean waves at her as they come in. Castiel notes how her gaze lingers on Dean, and Dean grins back, as if unaware doing that might very well be the equivalent of a naturally occurring compulsion, requiring all that behold his smile to immediately feel an overwhelming need to throw themselves at him. "Have a good night. Try to get bed by dawn, okay?"

"Night, Dean," she answers, expression wistful. "And Cas," she adds, looking startled at his existence, and he bites back a laugh, nodding seriously at her self-conscious expression; this is probably not an appropriate time to tell her Dean has this effect on everyone with (and sometimes without) a pulse.

"I'll get dinner," Castiel tells Dean, who nods absent agreement, and Castiel watches him thoughtfully before starting toward the mess.

Fortunately, part of tonight's dinner is still available; carne guisado (with a surprising and gratifying multitude of preserved peppers and onions swimming in the rich gravy), rice, and sliced _nopales_ , still crisp within their foil wrapping. He doesn't bother seeking out two plates, simply finding the largest and placing enough for them both on it before placing it in the microwave, a miracle of the modern times that mortality has taught him to appreciate.

Placing a wet paper towel over it (reason unclear but the word 'moisture' was involved in Brenda's explanation), he sets the timer for a minute and thirty seconds (then check and stir, if he remembers correctly) and collects a portion of the tortillas that Alonzo prepared this morning, a skill he's teaching Brenda as well. 

Leaning back against the counter, Castiel watches the timer and finds himself thinking about their food supply. Even his most optimistic calculations on what Ichabod has available and what they received from both the local towns as well as the Alliance don't account for feeding this many for this long, and he knows that no one goes hungry for lack of a meal.

Ichabod's herds are very large, he knows; they are only beginning to breed stock, but a great deal they've collected from the wild over the last two years, escaped from abandoned farms. When possible, they hunt for meat to increase the number of domestic animals available for breeding and to provide themselves with milk and butter not limited to cows but also goats and their small herd of sheep, the latter of which provide wool as well.

When the microwave pings, Castiel takes a fork with him, checking the temperature before stirring carefully and replacing the paper towel before closing it and setting the timer again.

Nothing is wasted; leather is made from the hides of the animals they kill if possible, fat, rendered into a variety of substances including lubricants, creams for skin protection and treatments, and soap; organs carefully preserved for their nutritional value or medical use. They're prudent in harvesting, everything that can be preserved canned or jarred, held as insurance against failed crops or natural disaster, and they never would have become to branch into crops raised for trade if they were anything other than stable, but even with all that, they could not have this much food.

What did Joelle tell him when she brought the casserole (as it turns out, one of several that would arrive that day): rice.

When he returns to the room with the plate, silverware, and a jug of water and two plastic tumblers, he finds the bed (somewhat) made and Dean frowning at his hand.

"Hey," Dean says, hiding his startlement badly, and Castiel pretends not to notice. "What--oh, carne guisada? Hell yes."

Setting the tray on the mattress, he pours them both water before joining Dean, who takes the fork with surprising alacrity. 

"Joelle said they were in no danger of running out of rice," he tells Dean half-way through the meal. "I assumed she was trying to reassure me on availability of food, but...."

"Yeah, I was wondering about our never-ending supplies," Dean agrees after swallowing an enthusiastic mouthful. "I meant to talk to Alison or Lanak about that. I mean, they can't have much more--"

"They shouldn't have any at all," he interrupts. "For the last two days at least. Not without slaughtering most of their breeding stock, and that doesn't account for the vegetables, though rice I can believe; it stores well. They probably searched every empty town for fifty miles to get anything that wasn't perishable."

Dean's fork stops mid-way to his mouth. "You're sure about that?"

"There are no riots and no mysteriously disappearing people," he says, and Dean frowns before his eyes widen in horror. "This isn't human flesh. Obviously."

"Way to kill the appetite." Noticeably, he still eats the bite on his fork. "So you don't think maybe the other towns...."

"They contributed much, and the Alliance did as well," he says, doing rough calculations again to make sure. " 

"I'll talk to Alison tomorrow."

When they're done, Castiel puts the tray in a corner of the room out of the way to return to the kitchen for later. As he returns to the bed, he sees Dean looking down at his right hand with a bewildered expression. "Dean?"

Dean drops his hand into his lap before he slides to the edge of the bed and gets to his feet. "I'm gonna--"

Without thinking, he reaches out. "Is your hand bothering you--" 

Dean jerks it away, retreating a step toward the bed, and Castiel freezes. He's not sure which is worse; that Dean pulled away or that, from the look on his face, he didn't mean to do it.

"Sorry," Dean says quickly, staring at him in shock before abruptly dropping onto the mattress, shoulders curling in on themselves like withering leaves. "Sorry, it's--I don't know. Long day, I guess. It's fine, just a little sore."

"Dean--"

"Long day," Dean repeats, looking at his own hand like he's wondering where he can hide it. "It's just, you know, tired."

Even from here, Castiel can see how tightly his fingers are curled against his palm and wonders in horror how he missed this. "How long has it been like this?"

"It's just tired," Dean grinds out, staring at the floor. "It pulled the trigger on twenty-six people and a fuckload of Croats yesterday. My fuck up, I fix it, Cas; you shouldn't have to."

There are many ways Castiel could respond to that; he chooses none of them. "Your boots--would you like me to get them for you?"

Dean nods jerkily. "Sure, yeah. Thanks."

Crouching, he forces himself not to look at Dean's hand and instead concentrates on easing off each boot and then each sock, buying himself time to acknowledge he doesn't know what to do. If Dean were ill or injured, he'd make him soup and sandwiches without crusts and read to him and fetch endless wet cloths for his fever; if Dean were threatened, he'd kill it; if Dean were bored, he'd find something to capture his interest; if Dean wanted sex, they'd have it; this is none of those things, where there is something to do, and if he didn't know how to do it, he could learn. All he knows of easing pain is how to forget it, at least for a little while.

_You couldn't do it wrong. Being you was all you had to do to get it right._

Standing up, he looks down at the bent head, the defeated bow of his shoulders, and without thinking, strokes an errant strand of dark hair. "Look at me," he says quietly, and slowly, reluctantly, Dean looks up. "You're not a monster."

Dean stills, green eyes dark, then abruptly tips forward, resting his head against Castiel's stomach with a sigh, hands coming to rest on his hips, fingers tight enough that he hopes there will be bruises come morning. 

Unthinkingly, he moves closer, breath catching as Dean leans more heavily against him, letting Castiel take the precious weight of his body, freely offering what is beyond all price. He threads his fingers through Dean's hair more firmly and is rewarded by a muffled sound, shoulders starting to shake beneath his hands, breath fast and hot through his t-shirt. Slowly, patiently, he strokes the dark hair, dragging the tips of his fingers against his scalp and down the smooth, soft skin at the back of Dean's neck. He runs his thumb over the knob of his spine, feeling the lingering ache of muscles bunched too tight for far too many hours like they're his own.

"How old was Andy?" The words are breathed against the now-damp material of Castiel's shirt but audible all the same, carrying new tension to his shoulders and back. "I didn't even--I should know that."

"Twenty-six as of October eighteenth," he answers. "He and Kat had a private celebration, from what I understand, which led to the much belated consummation of the decision not to be just friends." Stroking Dean's hair back, he feels Dean move into the touch and thinks he may have a plan. Or at least a course of action. "Let me assist you to prepare for bed."

Dean lifts his head, red-rimmed eyes narrowing. "You have a thing for undressing me or something? Boots, coat today...this a thing or something?"

"Dressing and undressing you, yes," he agrees. "Especially when they're my clothes."

Dean's mouth drops open. "What?"

"Arming you, disarming you, the list goes on. Even doing our combined laundry carries--something of this, it's very odd. I didn't realize I was being subtle," he adds. "I'm not sure whether it's reassuring or depressing that you didn't notice, but it's consistent, at least."

Dean closes his mouth with an audible click.

"Stand up," he says firmly, and Dean gets unsteadily to his feet. Reaching for the hem of his sweater, Castiel tugs it up his chest, raising an eyebrow, and Dean belatedly raises his arms so he can pull it off. The thermal follows, but he pauses at the t-shirt-- _Grateful Dead_ , excellent choice--and shakes his head; extending gratification is perfectly legitimate and there are other things to deal with first. "You can put your arms down."

"Uh." He cuts off when Castiel unbuttons his jeans, breath catching audibly when Castiel kneels to drag the thermal underwear over his hips and down his legs. "Huh."

"Sit down," he says, and sees the mattress bounce in his peripheral vision. Pulling jeans and thermal free of Dean's feet, he tosses them to the pile near the chair, Castiel looks up curiously. "You were saying?"

Dean blinks at him, pink tongue darting out to lick his lips. "Let's go with _what_?"

"Even when the potential for sex wasn't involved--which until very recently it wasn't--it was oddly satisfying," he answers as he stands back up. "Move to the center of the mattress." Circling the bed, he goes to get the lotion that Dean took from Alison's kitchen that inexplicably ended up among their bags when they moved to headquarters. "Sometimes, I'd craft very elaborate scenarios in which circumstances vague required me to select all the clothing that you'd wear that day. Despite our limited selection, it would take some time to choose exactly the right ensemble before dressing you in it."

"You'd...." Dean drops down on the center of the bed with a very odd expression. "You'd jerk off to--to imagining picking my clothes and _dressing me_?"

"That would make sense, wouldn't it? No." Finding the half-empty bottle of lotion at the bottom of his bag, he wonders uncertainly if they should pretend they have no idea what bottle Alison is talking about when she finds it missing or offer something in trade. "I mean, obviously yes, sometimes," Dean makes an inarticulate noise, "but most of the time it had nothing to do with sex. It was simply a very enjoyable way to pass the time. Soothing."

"Soothing."

"Like meditation, now that I think about it," he agrees. "Next time Teresa invites me to meditate with her, I'll try visualizing that. Also, fun."

"Like, what, a girl with her first Barbie?" Castiel frowns, reviewing his limited experience with the daycare, but from what he remembers, interest in dolls wasn't limited to a single gender or sex. "You're fucking with me!"

"I'm not sure," he admits, unwilling to dismiss any potential explanation. "Like--cooking for you. Rescuing you from Hell. Driving you to various locations."

Standing back up, he turns to see Dean staring at him in horror (or more accurately, attempting horror and not quite achieving it: interesting).

"Some of it is primate social bonding behavior, yes, or at least, how I seem to be interpreting it, but the rest…. I can't explain it," he admits, "but as so little of humanity is explicable, my best guess is territoriality--"

"What?" Dean exclaims, but something in his expression tells Castiel perhaps he did notice...something. He should find out one day. "I'm not territory!"

"Tell that to my hindbrain." He joins Dean on the bed, settling cross-legged across from him and opening the bottle of lotion. "I assure you, I see you as an independent person and not an object, but the hindbrain contains primal instincts that date back before you were even sentient and it responds not at all to arguments that we live in more enlightened times and there's no need to visually mark you as mine to all that might behold you. One adjusts, or so I've heard. Give me your hand."

Dean automatically extends his hand. "Do you even hear what you're--" He stops short, staring down at his hand while Castiel peels away the brace, closing a hand firmly around Dean's wrist in case he tries to pull away. "How did you…."

"Distraction, habit, and proof of the effectiveness of positive reinforcement in classical conditioning. You're not the only one that understands how useful it can be." Frowning, he turns Dean's hand over and bites his lip against a curse; the fingers are curled tightly, probably overextension of the tendons. "Can you extend your fingers? Slowly: don't force it."

Dean nods shortly, and Castiel watches closely as he slowly extends his fingers, the tremor increasing exponentially until he stops just short at less than one third extension. "That's it," he breathes, and Castiel doesn't need to ask how much pain he's in. 

"Relax your hand." Pressing his thumb to the center of Dean's palm, he feels the rigidity beneath the developing calluses, following it carefully over the heel and wrist and mapping the scar tissue extending up Dean's forearm inch by inch. What Dean can no longer feel with his destroyed nerves Castiel learned to do by touch, marking each miniscule change, turning Dean's arm slowly to track the shift of muscle and bone against the pads of his fingers before returning to check each individual tendon in his wrist one by one. Dean would _probably_ be aware of a tear, but nerve misfire has been a problem more than once, and if Dean was busy (he has been) he might not even have noticed, much less remembered. "How long has it been like this?" 

Dean shakes his head. "It's not important, I fucked up--"

"How. Long?" Castiel asks flatly, watching Dean's face. "Since yesterday, the Croat attack?"

He nods, and Castiel wonders how on earth he could have missed this very obvious explanation for Dean's clumsiness bandaging his arm that evening. Because he's an idiot and this is Dean.

"Have you taken anything? Name and dosage."

"Ibuprofen, 800 MG, last night," Dean answers shortly. "Hot water helped relax it. At least until now."

Castiel scrolls through the available drugs in Vera's kit as well as their own and wishes he'd confirmed what Ichabod had on hand. "A muscle relaxant--"

"They fuck with my head." He wants to argue the point, but he knows from experience that the benefits of pain relief won't compensate for the inevitable result of artificial sedation. Dean has few defenses against what haunts his sleep far too many nights, and he won't risk compromising Dean's ability to awaken himself or Castiel doing it for him if needed. Having now experienced the something of the range of what dreams can do, he understands far better why a lack of escape is not something to be discarded with impunity. "So?"

"What?"

"So, how bad did I fuck it up?" He snaps his gaze to Dean. "Just--just tell me, okay?"

"You didn't." Reaching blindly, he tugs a pillow from the headboard and sits it in his lap before placing Dean's hand on it, fingers curling reflexively inward, and retrieves the lotion. "I should have been paying closer attention. I am now."

"Cas, it's not your job--"

"It is my job," he interrupts. "It will always be difficult if not impossible for you to judge injury to your hand due to the damage from the infection; I can." Though in this case, there is no possible way Dean wasn't aware, but that's irrelevant.

"You shouldn't have to."

"I want to." Dean swallows, looking away. "It's a privilege I have no intention of being denied." Pouring the lotion into his hand, he waits for it to warm a little before reaching for Dean's hand. Starting at the heel, he starts to knead, feeling the tightly knotted muscles slowly begin to loosen. "Now relax."

Dean lets out a startled breath, and Castiel slowly and carefully works his way to Dean's palm, keeping his touch light at first and following the cues of Dean's body on when to increase pressure and how much. 

"Is this helping?" he asks, glancing up to observe Dean's half-closed eyes in satisfaction.

"Yeah," Dean breathes huskily. "Keep. Doing that."

Concentrating, he feels each individual muscle loosen, and thinks that this would be an excellent time to offer suggestions.

"Lie down," he says invitingly, smiling when Dean's eyes slit open suspiciously and moving the pillow into position. "Endorphins are best enjoyed while supine."

Dean makes a face even as he drops onto the mattress with a sigh, curling on his left side, and Castiel helpfully moves closer, stretching Dean's arm across his lap to reduce potential strain. Getting more lotion, he starts again, shifting to the knuckles and watching Dean's body carefully, and not entirely for the simple pleasure of doing so (though there's that as well). 

Dean's threshold for pain is astronomically high, and far more relevant, minimizing it while in public view is reflexive to the point that Castiel's fairly sure he doesn't even realize he's doing it. If he'd noticed earlier (perhaps when Dean was fresh from a three-mile long escape from a small army of Croats after a fight at the ward line? Or any time after) and taken him somewhere private to see to it, his hand wouldn't be in this condition at all; Dean doesn't hide from him, not anymore.

Fortunately, Dean has no inhibitions whatsoever in showing what he enjoys, which is excellent for diagnostic purposes and devastatingly effective in eliciting lust. No one wearing faded blue and red plaid boxers should be able to do that so effortlessly, but it's appallingly likely Dean could make quite literally any article of clothing seductive.

Working each individual finger in turn, he watches Dean stretch out by degrees across the length of the mattress like slow-motion visual pornography for extreme masochists with a fetish for a PG rating. The accompany soundtrack of sighs, breathless moans, and a random assortment of single consonants that inexplicably require at least three syllables to articulate is--

Dean makes an obscenely contented sigh as Castiel finishes with the tight webbing between finger and thumb, t-shirt rucked up just enough to reveal a thin strip of pale skin. Endorphins, he reminds himself firmly; they do this, it's--something, he doesn't care, but another shower is in his immediate future, and he doesn't care about water rationing, he'll dig them a well to make up for it.

Taking a deep breath, he gets more lotion and methodically goes over Dean's hand again before saying, in what he hopes is at least some semblance of a normal voice, "Try to extend your fingers again. This time, stop if there's any pain at all."

Dean slits open his eyes and slowly extends each finger to just over two-thirds extension before making a fist and smiling drowsily. "Better," he confirms, adding after a long moment, "When can I use it again?"

"Twenty-four hours of rest, if possible," he says, and Dean makes a face but nods, not surprised or simply far too relaxed to care; it could go either way. "I'll repeat in the morning and tomorrow night--and on request, of course. No permanent damage, if that's what you're worried about."

Dean nods, rolling bonelessly onto his back, heel sliding sensuously against the bedcover. His eyes fall closed as he stretches, slow and full-body, back arching off the bed for a period of time comparable to the primordial soup of the oceans developing sentient life (twice) before dropping back onto the mattress with a suggestive bounce. He didn't realize those could even be suggestive; humanity is indeed filled with surprises.

Appalled, Castiel realizes this image won't be the fuel of a very questionable masturbation session in the shower; recall alone will be all that's required, water, clothes, and physical stimulation optional. Even those first deeply bewildering and distracting weeks after his libido asserted itself so dramatically and all at once, it wasn't like this; if it had been, he wouldn't have survived.

Then the green eyes open, and he forgets to breathe. 

Pushing himself up on his left arm, Dean licks his lips glossy before turning in place, and in a single, fluid moment straddles Castiel's lap. "Got any plans for tonight?"

Cupping Dean's hips, he strokes his thumbs in the hollows beneath the soft cotton before sliding his palms over the curve of Dean's ass and jerking him closer, hearing Dean's breath catch at the press of his cock against Castiel's own. 

"I do now," he murmurs, fixing on Dean's mouth. Sliding a hand up the length of Dean's back, he knots his fingers in his hair and tugs him unresisting into a kiss.

He thinks of those endless hours in their bed in Chitaqua, making out for what felt like forever, learning the feel of his lips and taste of his mouth, the sound of his breathless sighs, the shape of his body, greedy to discover everything he could and realizing anew each night the vastness he still had yet to learn.

He slides his tongue along the seam of Dean's lips, coaxing them apart before skimming over his palate and tasting his tongue, drawing his thumb through the thick stubble against the grain. Dean tilts his head, changing the angle and deepening the kiss, and he hums his approval when Dean's teeth scrape over his tongue before sucking it deeper.

Eventually, he has to breathe; drawing back, he takes in the reddened lips and half-closed eyes in satisfaction. "What do you want?"

Dean's answer is barely a breath. "How about you show me?"

Castiel searches his face before drawing him back down into another kiss, relearning the shape of his mouth as he runs his thumb along the stretched elastic of his boxers and pushing up the ragged hem of his t-shirt, skimming his nails up Dean's back and feeling him arch. 

"Lift your arms," he murmurs, gathering the soft cotton in both hands before skimming it up and over his head. He mouths a kiss against the soft skin of his breastbone before licking over one dark nipple, feeling it harden as Dean shivers before taking it between his lips.

"Cas," Dean gasps, and Castiel catches his right hand, easing it back down to rest on his thigh. Delicately, he circles the aureole with the tip of his tongue, resting a hand on Dean's back as he takes it between his teeth and then starts to suck. "God," Dean breathes, left hand curving around the back of his neck. "Yeah."

Bracing a hand between Dean's shoulder blades, he lowers him down to the mattress, finishing with a final lick before drawing a line with his tongue to the other, holding himself above Dean just enough that he can't easily rub up against him. 

"Cas, come _on_ ," Dean mutters, shoving his hips up. Reaching down with one hand, Castiel pins them to the bed.

Biting down once, Castiel sits up, shifting until he's straddling Dean's waist. "They didn't know me."

"What?" Dean asks distractedly.

"Those who decided my role in this," he says conversationally. "If I were going to manipulate you, it certainly wouldn't be to create a weapon to save the world."

Dean frowns. "Huh?"

"I would do it to please myself," he continues. "I wonder that I didn't think of it before."

Dean's breath quickens. "How would you..." He pauses, wetting his lips. "How?"

"Seduce you, of course," he answers, and feels him shiver. "I would have you in every way, any way that I pleased. Everything I knew, I would have taught you. I would have enjoyed it very much, and you would have enjoyed it, too."

Dean sucks in a breath. "I...."

"I'd keep you in my bed, unseen by any eyes but my own," he whispers. "I'd never let you leave. Feed you, bathe you, watch you sleep, and fuck you when you woke up; you'd deny me nothing. I'd keep you, and you'd let me, because you'd want me to."

This time, Dean doesn't answer, green eyes wide.

"It's far too late now, of course," he continues, "but we could pretend. If you wish."

After a few long moments, Dean nods jerkily. "Yeah, we could--we can do that."

"You'll let me do with you as I will?" he asks, and Dean nods. "Yes or no: verbal confirmation is required."

"Yeah," Dean answers huskily. "Anything you want."

Castiel reaches for the nearest pillow, lifting Dean's head and tucking the pillow beneath it, taking a moment to smooth the tangles in Dean's hair. "It is said," he says conversationally, "that obedience is a virtue and virtue, of course, is its own reward." Dean nods vaguely, tongue darting out to lick his lower lip. "However, I have no objection to offering more tangible benefits for your obedience. I'm going to fuck you with my fingers." Dean inhales sharply, eyes dark. "If you obey me, I'll suck you off while I do it. Do you understand?"

From the abrupt jerk of Dean's hips beneath him, he does. "Yes or no, Dean?"

"Yeah." Dean swallows, nodding. "Yeah, I can do--do that."

"Good." Bracing a hand on the mattress, Castiel kisses him, catching Dean's right wrist before it can leave the bed and easing it over Dean's head to rest on the pillow. "Twenty four hours of rest," he reminds him. "If you move it again, you won't be allowed to use either hand at all." Anyone else, he would have offered the option of restraints, but he's curious; Dean certainly didn't need them last time, and he'd like to see what he can do when he's tested.

Dean nods.

"Good." Straightening, he rests a hand on Dean's chest. "Don't move until I tell you that you can. Do you understand?"

"Yes," he answers immediately.

"Good." Easing off Dean, he retrieves the lotion and sets it beside Dean's right hip before retrieving the other pillow to put beside it. Kneeling between his knees, Castiel reaches for the waist of his boxers. "Lift your hips," he tells him, tugging them down his thighs and easing each leg out before dropping them off the floor. "Spread your legs for me, Dean." Breath quickening, Dean does, heels sliding against the bedcover. "I'll tell you when to stop."

Just short of the limits of Dean's flexibility, he stops him, easing a hand beneath each knee and bending them, giving Dean time for his feet to find purchase on the quilt before sitting back on his heels again simply to look at him. The view is utterly breathtaking, pale burnished to gold in the warm yellow light, perfectly still despite the flush spreading across the high cheekbones from his appraisal.

"'A thing of beauty is a joy for ever'," he murmurs, and Dean's eyes darken. "'Its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness.'"

Stretching out above him, Castiel kisses him, pleased when Dean's right hand remains on the pillow while the fingers of his left hand curl warmly around the back of his neck. Nipping the tip of Dean's tongue, he presses a kiss to his chin, skimming up his jaw before sucking a kiss against the ultra-sensitive skin just below his ear. Dean's fingers tighten, breath catching, and licking the warm skin, he follows the strong pulse of his jugular down to the soft skin between neck and shoulder, feeling the quickening beat of his heart against his tongue.

Dean inhales sharply as he sinks his teeth into the tender skin without hesitation, fingers sliding into his hair in silent entreaty: _more_. Tracing the shape of his teeth with his tongue, he presses an open mouth kiss there, sucking until he can taste the iron pooling just beneath the skin.

As yet, he hasn't had the opportunity to explore Dean's body as much as he wishes (he suspects, however, that all of time would not be long enough to do it), and this is no different; Dean's patience is not what anyone sane would call 'in existence' and his own seems to vanish entirely every time he touches him. The taste of him is addictive; he shapes the sharp bones of his collar with his mouth, lingering on the warm, silky skin of his chest, lean muscle shifting beneath his lips, and traces the outline of the anti-possession tattoo with the tip of his tongue before turning his attention to the hard, dark nipples demanding attention. Dean's cock slides wetly against his belly, leaving a line of cooling pre-come as moves lower, mouthing the hard, almost concave planes of his stomach. Sucking a kiss just above the navel, he looks up to see Dean watching him, lips parted and eyes glazed.

Concentrate, he reminds himself firmly. 

Biting on the sharp edge of his hip, Castiel sits back on his heels and reaches for the second pillow. "Lift your hips." Sliding the pillow beneath them, he arranges Dean to his satisfaction, then reaches for the lotion, pouring it into his left palm to warm it while watching for any sign of uncertainly or distress. The former will be easily dispelled by action; the latter will be more difficult, as Dean will resent any effort at reassurance, or for that matter Castiel even noticing that it exists.

"You're doing very well," he says, slowly slicking two fingers on his right hand. "That deserves a reward." 

He doesn't wait for a response; leaning forward, he takes the head of Dean's cock in his mouth, and Dean makes an inarticulate sound, left hand knotting in his hair, but his hips are perfectly still. He fights the urge to take all of him at once--such things aren't to be rushed no matter how tempting--running his tongue behind the head while sliding his thumb down Dean's inner thigh and stroking wet fingers over the thin skin behind his balls before circling lazily around his tightly furled hole.

Dean tenses (expected), but Castiel does nothing else, allowing him to adjust to the concept of penetration in imminent fact instead of merely in theory. For in this he has patience and in full measure. Taking a quick breath, he slowly takes Dean's cock into his throat, and Dean's hand tightens as he breathes, " _Cas._ "

Running the tip of his finger against the clenched muscle, he rubs gently over it as he pulls back to suck luxuriously on the swollen head, ripe and sweet against his tongue, and feels the slight relaxation when he presses the tip of his finger against it.

"Just. Do it," Dean says in a terrible facsimile of his normal voice--husky, thick, how sex sounds; he could listen to Dean like this all day (and one day, he'll do just that). His hips almost jerk, then still by pure will, and Castiel lets the head of his cock pop out of his mouth. "Let me...." Dean sucks in a breath, obviously searching for words. "Just...."

"You can move," he says, and almost immediately, Dean shoves a heel more deeply into the bed and pushes against his finger, taking it to the second knuckle with a sharply indrawn breath. 

"Oh," he breathes in surprise, stilling, and Castiel leans down to press a kiss against the trembling skin of his lower belly, watching Dean's expression change to uncertain pleasure.  
Feeling Dean make an effort to relax, he slides his finger more deeply into the tight heat of his body until the tip brushes against the tiny nub of his prostate, and Dean breathes in sharply. "Yeah, that...yeah."

Sitting up, he reaches for Dean's left hand and slowly licks the palm wet. "I want to watch you touch yourself," he says, wrapping Dean's hand around the base of his cock and squeezing. "Now."

Lips parting further, Dean licks them before nodding, adjusting his grip nervously. He's almost clumsy at first, jerking to a startled stop when Castiel pulls his finger almost out before easing it back inside and brushing almost incidentally against his prostate, shivering. The next easy slide, Dean moves into it, adjusting the rhythm on his cock to Castiel's finger. Slowly, carefully, he increases the pace, and instinctively, Dean matches it, green eyes half-closed in concentration; he's beautiful.

He's so entranced by the sight of Dean losing himself in pleasure that he almost forgets what he's doing. Sliding his finger out (much to Dean's vocal displeasure), he slicks two of them again.

"I’m going to add another finger." He rests a hand on Dean's hip before pushing the first back in for a few long strokes that make Dean curse before adding the second, patiently working open the tight rim first and confining himself to slow, shallow thrusts, enough for Dean to feel the difference without letting him try to take them both fully, not yet. Dean tenses at the stretch, but he doesn't stop, hand slick and wet with pre-come as well.

The tight, hot grip of Dean's ass is almost as good as watching Dean jerk himself off; it's an effort to keep his concentration, ignore the hot flicker of heat traveling down his spine. To distract himself, he presses his mouth against the soft skin of Dean's inner thigh, sucking a series of kisses until reaching the thickly corded muscle beneath the thin skin where thigh meets groin. Dean grunts softly as Castiel slides his tongue over it, the barest hint of invitation in the lift of his hips against his restraining hand. He's never turned down one of those in his life; licking a circle, he sinks his teeth into the warm flesh.

"Christ," Dean groans as Castiel starts to suck. "Gonna. Feel that one."

The tightness around his slowly thrusting fingers abruptly gives, so quickly they slide halfway inside. Lifting his head, he meets Dean's eyes, noting the tell-tale concentration beneath the glaze, thighs starting to tremble.

"Don't come." With a grimace, Dean's hand stills, and he starts to let go of his cock. "I didn't say stop."

Immediately, Dean grasps his cock again; he's very close. "Cas, please--"

"If you can't obey me, tell me now," he interrupts. "And I'll stop."

For a moment, he's not sure Dean can, but squeezing the base firmly, he sucks in a breath and slowly begins to stroke, hand trembling. Castiel waits, perfectly still, until Dean picks up speed again, face twisting with the effort.

"Very good," he says softly. Dean cuts off a groan when Castiel draws his fingers out, then gasps at the first rough thrust, back arching from the bed as Castiel establishes a slow rhythm for him to follow before increasing speed, fingers rubbing firmly against the prostate. "Perfect."

Dean drops back, panting, but his hand never stops moving, thighs trembling from the strain, close but holding back; he won't push him any harder, not this time.

"Count to ten," he says, bracing a hand on the bed by Dean's hip. "And you may come." He licks the head before adding, "Out loud." 

Before Dean can comment--provided he has the breath, of course--Castiel eases Dean's hand from his cock and takes it down his throat. And waits.

"One," Dean gasps, and Castiel slides his mouth up his cock as he pulls his fingers almost out, sucking the head as he flexes his fingers at the sensitive opening. "T-two."

Dean curses as he takes his cock, thrusting firmly and rubbing over the prostate. "Three. Four." He's learning. "F. Five." In reward, Castiel tongues the sensitives area just below the head, and Dean chokes on "Six." Leaving Dean to his count, Castiel selects a faster rhythm, feeling Dean starting to tremble. "Sev. Seven." Dean twists helplessly against the sheets, and Castiel sucks the head idly, licking it clean, before going back down. "Eight." Castiel twists his fingers on the downstroke and Dean makes a broken sound. "Nine!"

Stroking down Dean's thigh, he listens to Dean panting, nearly inarticulate, and then, barely a breath, " _Ten_."

He feels the head swell, Dean arching with an indrawn breath that slurs his name almost beyond recognition, and takes the first burst down his throat and eases back until just the head is in his mouth, the bitter-sweet taste flooding his mouth as he sucks, drawing it out until Dean collapses onto the bed. Swallowing, Castiel waits for Dean to soften before he sits back, wiping his lips as he eases his fingers free of the tight grasp of Dean's body.

"Don't move," he says softly, and Dean's eyes slit open, barely a glimmer of glazed green. Bracing a hand on the mattress, he shifts to straddle Dean's chest, sliding his thumb down the stubbled jaw before sliding it in his mouth, still slick with Dean's come. "I want to come on your face."

There's enough of the lotion on his right hand to make it easy; sliding two fingers in Dean's mouth, he shoves down the loose sweatpants enough to take out his cock and slowly strokes himself, breath catching when Dean starts to suck his fingers, tongue sliding between them, wet and soft, and his concentration shatters. All at once, he's aware of the heavy, growing tightness in his groin, the heat crawling down his spine; the touch of his own hand is almost overwhelming.

"Very good," he breathes unsteadily, speeding up his strokes; just the memory of Dean's hole tight around his fingers would be enough, but watching Dean suck like he's imagining it's his cock is inspiring. Thumb sliding around the head almost frantically, it's only a few strokes before he pulls his fingers from Dean's wet mouth and comes.

It's several long moments before he can think enough to be relieved he didn't collapse on top of Dean. Careful, he slides to the bed beside him, still shaking, an aftershock rippling through him at the sight of his come on Dean's pretty, flushed face, green eyes half-closed, his right hand on the pillow, and long legs still spread wide.

"Beautiful," he rasps, and Dean's lips stretch in a faint smile. Pushing himself up, he wipes a thumb across Dean's cheek and slips it between the parted lips, watching Dean suck it clean. He takes care of the rest himself, feeling Dean shiver with every brush of his tongue, licking away every trace of his come before kissing him again and Dean's tongue slide against over his, following the taste.

Sitting up, Castiel brushes a final kiss against his lips, then reaches for the pillow under Dean's hips. "Lift up," he murmurs, and dreamily, Dean obeys. He eases Dean's legs to the bed himself, slow and careful, then pauses to mark each forming bruise, red already darkening to purple, before retrieving the extra blanket from the foot of the bed and drawing it over Dean against the chill of the room and sliding in beside him. 

Without prompting, Dean turns into his arms, burying his face against the warm cotton of his t-shirt with a sigh. Stroking back the sweaty hair, he closes his eyes, sliding his fingers up and down his spine. 

"Very good," he whispers against his hair in dramatic understatement. "Take all the time you like."

* * *

An hour and a half, two glasses of water, a thorough (and extremely fun) clean up, and a trip to the bathroom later, Dean finds himself stretched comfortably on his stomach in the center of the bed, still naked (because Cas), blankets and sheet pooling around his waist in concession to the temperature (again, because Cas). He's just tired enough to be against moving, but not quite tired enough to sleep. There's multiple points of soreness, a sharp burn when he moves his left leg (reason obvious), and an odd awareness of a not-quite-soreness in the area of his ass.

Adjustment, right: _in_ his ass. He checks for any potential weirdness (Fingers. _In his ass._ ) just in case, but yeah, he's as okay with this after the fact as he was enthusiastic during. To be sure, though, they should definitely do that again, like soon. Repetition, always useful.

Also okay with: being the center of Cas's undivided attention, in which his only job is to lie there and let Cas ply him with water, blankets, warm, wet washcloths, and lots of petting. And he doesn't even have to be dying, feverish, Croat-infected, or with the worst cold in history to get it; it's great.

"Dean?" Cas asks solemnly, and Dean slits his eyes open, waiting for it. "How are you feeling?"

Only Cas. "Not bad," he says after enough of a pause to make his point. Cas roll his eyes, but noticeably the stroking doesn't stop. "So that keep me in bed forever thing--that's still on the table, right? I'm saying, you want to go dark side, I'm here for you."

Cas makes a face like yeah, he's kind of regretting that lack of Machiavellian strategy in their lives, too. "I wouldn't survive a week," he admits, nails sliding up the back of his neck in little trails of warmth. "In fact, it's very possible if we were in Chitaqua right now, not here with regular death-defying distractions, I would be very close to a stroke."

Dean summons just enough energy to look dubious and hopes to God he's not flushing. "Scheduled. Orgies."

"That was different," Cas argues. "This is more like...puberty. Again."

"You didn't go through puberty."

"Imagine, if you will, everything that had until that point been suppressed all becoming active at once, but in an adult body that had--technically speaking--never actually experienced it before, as this was one was the one my Father remade." Cas's expression changes to vague suspicion, adding darkly, "Though He might have considered this rather amusing. My Father's sense of humor can be questionable."

Talk about non-sequitur. "Catch me up?"

Cas sighs, looking pained. "Do you remember when I was--unhappy with you. It was a very long time ago, I told you sex with humans was...."

"A degradation," Dean says helpfully. Sure, water under the bridge, but not like he can't still see the river. "Barely."

Cas wrinkles his nose. "That, yes. Millennia ago--and I mean many of them--I might have been somewhat...judgmental...regarding the demands of the flesh. It all seemed so ridiculous."

Dean might just die right now from not being surprised. "Really."

"Pride goeth before the fall," he quotes glumly. "And chastity before the demands of the libido. It's...balance, I suppose."

Dean nods: Cassiel, the karma and the balance. "So punished with sex; wouldn't have called that one from God."

"Punishment only teaches you not to do something," Cas answers slowly. "It's only effective as a deterrent, and those have their place. My Father's lessons...more often than not, their purpose is to teach you what you should do and why you should want to."

"That," Dean says states, burying his skepticism deep enough that Cas doesn't see it, "is even weirder." It works; Cas snorts into the pillow, and Dean flexes his right hand lightly; it feels stiff, but about a thousand times better than it's been in days.

Tucking his left arm under his head, he lets out a contented breath as Cas scratches gently just below his hairline, followed by his lips, a barely-there warm brush that trails down to beneath his ear. "What time is it, anyway?"

"An hour until midnight," Cas breathes against his skin, and Dean doesn't argue, though his body tells him it's gotta be at least three in the morning; as it turns out, that kind of thing happens when someone fucks with time. "It was roughly five hours in semi-suspension."

"So outside the barrier it's what, five hours later than now?" 

"No, she pulled us out of time before forming a bubble and slowing it," he answers. "When she left, she set us back inside at exactly the moment she pulled us out. Those not affected, however, are roughly five hours older than those who were, but..." He shrugs. "Linear time isn't constant even when not being manipulated--"

"Stop there," Dean says; he can almost understand this and he likes that. "So it won't be--I don’t know--weird."

Cas meditates that for a few moment, leaning closer to brush a kiss against the back of his shoulder. "I'm not entirely sure I know what qualifies as weird any longer," he admits, lips moving against his skin. 

"I mean," Dean persists, because he has a reason for this, "will everyone give you a migraine if you look at them wrong because they're--whatever I do to you."

"Oh." Cas lifts his head, meeting Dean's eyes. "Vera."

That's where he was going with this, yeah. "When the goddess left, she looked at me--same look on your face when you first saw me, but less pot and more vertigo."

Pressing more closely against Dean's side, Cas folds his arm under his head. "That was the lingering effects of short-term possession, that's all. Much like her sudden acquisition of Hindi, though that she might actually retain, since the addition to her language centers wouldn't be considered damage."

"Free gift with possession?" Dean snorts, settling more comfortably, aware of Cas watching him. "Spit it out already."

There's a brief pause. "Why did you ask me to leave you at the fire tonight?"

Dean knew he wouldn't get away with that, so it's not like he's surprised: _Dean Winchester, infer self-torment_. "How many people did Dean shoot when they were infected?" 

Castiel doesn't check his slow stroke down the length of Dean's spine. "Fifteen. That I'm aware of."

"Twenty-six." Absently, Dean flexes the fingers on his right hand against the mattress. "Ten of 'em, I was holding the gun, but I'm the one that gave the order for the rest; they're all mine. Before or after they change, this how it's always gonna end, either with a needle or a gun, I _get it_. I just thought...."

Cas waits.

"Harder," Dean says finally, looking away. "I thought it'd be harder. Five months ago, I couldn't have done it--I probably would have tried and stopped anyone who tried. Yesterday--the only thing I felt when we were done was relief I didn't choke."

It doesn't take him any time now to work out Cas's expression before he says the words. "I'm sorry. If I could have--"

"I'm not." That's the part that's been bothering him, and saying it out loud--yeah. Like a lot of things, it's not as bad as it sounded in his head. "They deserved someone who could get the job done. I don't want to be the guy who makes 'em suffer because it'll make me feel bad to end it." The hand on his back starts to stroke again, which Dean takes as he said that right; it doesn't happen often, so he'll enjoy it. "Only thing I regret is I didn't go get the bodies myself. Should have been the first thing I did when--"

"Dean--"

"--Andy was gone," he finishes, and that's easier, too. "I saw you out there-- _mano e mano_ with a goddamn _Hellhound_ \--because I didn't get my shit together and finish what I started."

"Technically speaking," he admits, resting his cheek on Dean's upper arm, "that part wasn't a facet of the original plan." Dean snorts: surprise. "How long were you--"

"Got there just in time to see for myself exactly what Chuck was talking about when he said you weren't faster than a bullet," he answers wryly. "Just fast enough not to be in front of the barrel when they're about to pull the trigger. Or a Hellhound trying to rip out you heart and you getting some brand-new scars for your collection of all the ways you worked out how to only get _non-fatal_ wounds."

Cas's expression is all math right now. "How did you get there in time--"

"How'd you figure out what we were doing outside the walls and what you needed to do?" And waits.

That Cas didn't notice doesn't surprise him, not anymore; it makes sense. If there's one thing he's figured out about Cas, he isn't one to question good things in his life due to the sheer novelty. Sleep, food, being able to tell when your best friend/future SO/current SO is feverish, sick, awake, in need of attention, running for his life and needing him to do something, those things are things that Cas _likes_ (or at least finds really useful). Dean, on the other hand, questions his good fortune right into the goddamn ground, so yeah, he noticed; he's got to make sure it keeps happening.

"How long..." Cas trails off uncertainly, like maybe he's expecting Dean to abruptly react badly or something, which yeah, only Cas.

"I don't remember a lot about when they brought us in after you made the wall," he answers. "Vera said she could tell how well the drugs worked when you went down, because that's when I stopped fighting." Cas is still absorbing that when he adds carelessly, "It's not like that anymore. Stopped dropping when you woke up, though, been like this since." It's settled, he thinks, examining that Cas-shaped space again, so familiar now its effortless. 

(And he can't prove it, but sometimes, he thinks it likes the attention, like maybe it would have kept dropping if Dean hadn't concentrated on it, trying to keep it from fading. Sure, that sounds crazy, but he's not wrong, either.)

"I didn't think about it," Cas says distractedly, and he just stops himself from grinning: of course he didn't. "When you were outside the walls, it--seemed the logical conclusion. I didn't question why."

Pretty much what he thought, yeah. "All I had to do was get to the door; I knew you'd take care of the rest." Lifting his right arm, he slings it over Cas's shoulders, drawing him closer.

"Why didn't you tell me?" 

He shrugs; because Cas doesn't question what he likes but gets really worried when Dean does. It's not that Dean won't argue him down, but why rush to the argument part?

"This wasn't part of--what we agreed this would do," he starts, which is Dean's cue to assemble something half-assed; sure, Cas will argue, but this isn't going to be a hard sell. "Dean, if you--"

Slinging his right arm over Cas's shoulders, Dean tugs him closer and stops the words, shivering at the memory of the taste of himself--of both of them--in Cas's mouth. The flicker of want across his nerves is enough to tell him dawn sex is in their future. Maybe something new; sure, unlike Cas, Dean has a working gag reflex, but hey, he's heard good things about practice and he should see what he can do right now anyway.

"I know the spiel," Dean murmurs against his mouth. "Nothing's changed. Answer's still yes."

Cas fails at glaring. "You also offer your most dangerously useful body fluids to anyone, no questions asked."

Dean laughs softly. "Nah, just to you," he breathes. "Anytime you want."

* * *

They're both nearly asleep when Dean remembers something that's been bothering him. "So you wouldn't rescue me?"

There's an impression of movement against his back, arm tightening around his waist. "What?"

"From the fey women," he clarifies. "You'd just leave me there with a lot of disappointed--well, not a lot, but some--fairies? Wouldn't even try to rescue me?"

And waits; it's going to be good, he can tell.

"I'd give them one chance to release you," Cas answers without hesitation. "Then I'd set C4 covered with rock salt and powdered cold iron around their sacred tree and in a counterclockwise spiral reaching to two point three miles using the tree as the center point. After going a safe distance, I'd detonate them in sequence from the tree, causing a chain reaction that would obliterate the tree and the bindings on their home beneath-the-earth, which would probably kill half of them outright from sheer shock. The rest I'd execute by knife, use their blood to write my name on the court floor as a warning to others who might encroach on my territory, and then retrieve you. Of course."

"Of course," Dean echoes, unable to stop grinning. Great Fey War, triumphant victor: Cas. Of course. "And me--I'd be on the couch for a while?"

Dean waits out the thoughtful pause. "I'm certain the slaughter would have worked out my feelings regarding your infidelity. Perhaps a discussion after we got home, but we'd both be rather tired. Perhaps you could make me breakfast."

Dean takes a deep breath, then another, but no; burying his face in the pillow, he laughs like he'll never stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ..and my notes disappeared. Okay, trying again.
> 
> "Jaya" is the heroine of one of my favorite books, [Raj](http://www.amazon.com/Raj-Novel-Gita-Mehta/dp/0449905667/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1454905343&sr=8-1&keywords=Raj+by+Gita+mehta) by Gita Mehta. I spent a ridic amount of my time in my teens looking for fiction about female rulers of pretty much anywhere (this explains a lot) and this--while fiction--did cover the requirements of 'female main character' and 'rules places'. 
> 
> If you've read it, you just went "...oh boy." Yeah, it was definitely that, but also this; Raj covers the end of British colonial rule of India through the eyes of Jaya, daughter of the Maharajah and Maharani of Balmer, who becomes basically Regent Maharani of Sirpur and I really can't explain the rest. This book is one of the reasons I took several classes in Indian politics and culture (which turned out super-useful, since well over half my coworkers right now are Indian nationals). It's incredible, let's put it that way.


	18. Chapter 18

_\--Day 157--_

He still wakes up in stages these days.

It's faster now--faster than ever--but it still happens, and it's like this: the cocoon of warmth around him, the give of the mattress beneath him, the heaviness of the bedding over him, the pillow beneath his head, the body stretched out against his back, this is a bed, this is a room, good so far.

 _Dean_. That's always first. There's something new, though, not even two weeks old: next is _Cas_.

Dean, Cas, Chitaqua, brownies, fever, Ichabod, party, emergency, their headquarters, their room, their bed: okay, got it. Right arm, still there; right hand aches, but it's a good ache; he can feel the faint strain in the muscles of his inner thighs from being held open that far for that long last night. Cas didn't push past his comfort zone, but he was right on top of it, and his muscles are reporting to say he should either do that less or stretch a lot more. He's going to say the latter is in his future and hope to God everyone pretends they can't guess why he suddenly wants to be more flexible.

Dean, Cas, here, in their bed: awesome. Burying a grin in his pillow, Dean lets the rest filter in however it wants; he got the important stuff down. Dawn is just starting to peek through the small opening in balcony's curtains, spreading loops of grey-pink light across the walls and spilling onto the floor. It's quiet, no one's screaming (yet), and there's no check-out at ten 

_Safe_ , his mind offers up warily, testing the concept and finding it good: yeah, that, too.

He feels a press of warm lips against the back of his neck, the arm around his waist tightening. "Good morning," Cas whispers against his skin, sending a shiver through his nerves that's echoed with the scrape of stubble as Cas works his way to his shoulder. "How are you feeling?"

"Good," Dean says lazily, turning his head enough to breathe the last word against Cas's lips. Reaching up and back to tangle his fingers in the dark hair, he slides his tongue into Cas's welcoming mouth. He can feel Cas hard against his ass; yeah, he's not the only one. Kicking back the blankets, he pushes back against it and catches his breath at the slide of Cas's cock, tip leaving a cooling wet streak. "Gonna do something about that?"

Cas hand slides between his legs, pulling his left leg up--oh yeah, more stretching is definitely happening--and shifts his hips. He forgets all about muscle strain (and everything else) when he feels Cas's cock slide between his legs, head bumping against the back of his balls. Then Cas drapes his leg over Dean's, pushing Dean's together tight for an experimental thrust that he can feel in his teeth and makes Cas shudder.

"That should work," Cas breathes in his ear right before his left hand closes over Dean's cock, and fuck yeah, that does fucking work. He doesn't realize he even reached for Cas's other hand until he squeezes the fingers of his right hand around Cas's against the pillow. Closing his eyes, he pushes into Cas's hand in the same slow rhythm as Cas's cock moves steadily between his legs, an electric spark every time the head bumps against the back of his balls. Experimentally, he squeezes his thighs together on the downstroke and Cas moans against his shoulder. " _Dean._ "

It takes a second to match everything up, but Cas is inspiring; once he has it, he sets it to automatic, concentrating on the spreading tingle, the coil of pressure low in his belly and groin, how good Cas's hand feels--holy shit, he's got a guy who doesn't have any problems with coordination first thing on the morning, _thank_ you--thumb working expertly over the slick head on the upstroke. Christ, he's almost dripping; this isn't gonna take long at all. 

It doesn't; Cas breaks from sucking a kiss into his shoulder with a gasp, picking up speed, and Dean's right there with him; a twist of Cas's hand, a breath, and Dean's coming hard enough to see spots dance in front of his eyes like solar flares. Cas isn't far behind him, either, or so he assumes; a few thrusts that drag out the aftershocks, and Cas stills; the flood of liquid warmth between his legs is worth another shock all by itself.

Settled to his bones, Dean sinks into the mattress, taking the precaution of catching Cas's slick hand as it reluctantly lets go of his cock, lacing their finger together and tucking them against his belly and tightening his thighs warningly just in case Cas gets some crazy idea he should move. He wants to keep this moment, everything about it; lock it away somewhere safe where it'll stay fresh, and when he pulls it out, it'll be like he's here again: a grey-dappled room and warm bed, and Cas's lips against the back of his neck, sleepy satisfaction and contentment infusing every breath.

"Breakfast?" Dean murmurs. Turning his head, he feels the scratch of stubble against his jaw and cheek, stilling when Cas comes into view; post-coital Cas is something to see, sure, flushed skin and tangled hair falling in his eyes, but that's not what makes it hard to breathe. He can remember this, sure (and he will), but he doesn't have to. He'll have more of these, a lifetime of them, to pick from.

"Dean?"

"Later, I mean." Rolling on his back, he brushes back the dark hair and smiles into the warm blue eyes. "Come here."

* * *

Dean knows something's wrong the second he reaches the mess and looks inside. 

It's not crowded--maybe a third of Chitaqua at most along with a few of their new recruits--but most of the tables occupied are toward the kitchen, leaving a pretty fucking obvious space around where Alicia's sitting in the southeast corner. Sure, it could be an accident, but it's also like a flashback to freshman year, high school six, when he forgot to play normal and paid for it. Good thing he didn't have money for lunch, anyway.

Stepping back out of view, Dean stops being fifteen for a minute and tries to work out exactly what the hell is going on. A quick count shows they're below threshold, no one looks in danger of violence--so far so good--but that just makes it _weirder_. They don't need more weird; they got enough of that.

Joe comes out of the kitchen with a cup of coffee, eyes tracking the room before finding him at the door; nodding, he casually makes his way across the mess, and Dean retreats down the hall. 

When Joe joins him, the casual look vanishes, brown eyes fixing somewhere south of his face. "Uh, Dean...." He raises his eyebrows: what? "You got--uh, something...." He gestures toward his neck in some way that Dean assumes is supposed to make sense.

Oh, right. "Hickeys?" Joe takes a drink from his coffee and makes a muffled sound that could be agreement. "I got laid, it was great, thanks; you should try it sometime. Moving on, what the fuck is going on in there?"

He grimaces, lowering his cup. "Short version or long?"

"You pick."

"Carol." Dean starts to ask what the hell Carol has to do with it when Joe adds, "And Kat. Maybe Kyle, too, not sure yet; he's still hoping to get back in Alicia's pants, but he's gotta know his chances are zero."

Dean stares at Joe for a moment, trying to absorb the mess is, actually, doing what it looks like it's doing. "You're fucking with me."

"Gossip makes the world go around, and the shittier the better." Joe sighs. "Kat's popular, and I'm pretty sure at least a couple of her visitors took her way too seriously about what Alicia did or didn't do outside the walls that led to Andy's death. That's not the problem, though." 

For a chilling second, he wonders if Micah told Carol about Alicia. "What?"

"What she said...." He makes a face. "Alicia said she'd done it before, when she took care of Andy?"

Dean feels no desire to work out why he's relieved. "Yeah. Why?" Then he gets it. "Spit it out. Isolation?"

Joe nods grimly. "Kids. 

" _Croat_ kids," he argues, keeping his voice low with an effort. "How the hell did anyone find out about that anyway? Dolores won't talk, even to _Vera_...." Son. Of. A. _Bitch_. "Where's Kyle?"

"Volunteer Center," Joe says, eyes narrowing in sudden comprehension. "Son of a bitch. Yeah, left early: wonder why? Want me to go get him?"

Dean almost says he'll handle that himself, thanks, but a glance at the mess changes his mind. "Take your team and get him as publicly as you can, make it obvious. Put him in an empty room here and don't tell him anything but that he's restricted to quarters."

Joe's bewildered frown changes into a grin. "I like it. What about Kat and Carol?"

"Carol's invitation to hang out here is revoked." Kat's a problem; she's popular and she's grieving for her dead boyfriend, and that's gonna buy her sympathy no matter what she does. He'll worry about that later. "Talk to Sarah, find out exactly who Kat's grief buddies have been for the last twenty-four hours."

Joe starts to look wary. "Dean, look, I get you're pissed, but you start disciplining people for what they say--"

"They can say whatever the fuck they want," he interrupts, though that's pending right now. "What they do, different thing. Anyway, not gonna punish them for being fucking sheep."

If anything, Joe looks even more wary. "What are you gonna do?"

"Show 'em how not to be," he says, taking Joe's coffee and almost choking at the first taste (black, Jesus, what, would sugar kill him?) as he goes back in the mess, pausing to make sure he gets as much attention as possible before walking casually to Alicia's table and sitting down.

And is suddenly, viscerally aware of what he did last night (and this morning). Adjustment: the gift that just keeps giving. Not sore, exactly (he doesn't make the mistake of spreading his legs, though), but _something_. With that comes the memory of Cas cleaning him up fifteen minutes ago--water restrictions mean no showers--but Dean can still smell Cas on him. A flicker of heat slides down his spine in a textbook example of so fucking not the time. 

"Dean?" Alicia says blankly; her expression is almost worth the bullshit.

Grinning, he takes another drink and pretends he likes it while scanning the plate she's barely touched. Chorizo, potatoes, preserved tomatillos, green peppers and onions and if he's right, there's tiny bits of jalapenos in there: eggs would be nice, but hell, who needs 'em when you got that combination? "What's up?"

Alicia puts down her fork, and he watches her eyes flicker behind him to the suddenly quiet peanut gallery. "Nothing much." She may be an early riser, but the dark circles under her eyes tell him it wasn't by choice. "Uh, Dean, I should tell you--"

"Pick up your fork and start looking like you're enjoying breakfast," he mutters, then thinks of something. Reaching for one of her tortillas, he tugs her plate toward him and clears enough space to unroll it. Taking her fork from her hand, he scoops a third of the mix into it, rolls it up, and shoves her plate back at her. Then takes a tortilla himself; Alonzo may be his favorite recruit. "Eat," he says and waits for her to warily pick it up and take a bite. "You lied on your report about Ichabod, yeah; you worked isolation, I know; I can also do the math and I know what you had to do."

She chews like it's the only thing she has to do.

"I get why you lied about it," he continues, pitching his voice for her alone. "Now you know you didn't have to. You didn't do anything wrong. Take another bite for our fucked up buddies back there. Now."

She obeys--more from surprise than anything else, he suspects--and finishes chewing with an effort. "I would have told you," she says quietly. "Before I knew you liked kids." She takes another bite, and Dean never realized how much an effort it is to just eat with this kind of attention on everything you do. "I like kids, too," she breathes. "That's why--that's why I volunteered. Have you ever seen kids with Croat?" He shakes his head, tamping down horror; he will, one day, and he's not looking forward to it. "I have. They shouldn't have to live like that, not if..." She lowers her head before anyone can see her face crumple. He straightens, giving her what cover he can with his body.

"Keep eating," he murmurs, taking another tortilla and waiting for her to take another grim bite. "I’m going to get us both coffee. Deep breath, then laugh like I just said something really funny."

He'll give her this much; she does, though he may be the only one who hears the hysteria in it. Crossing lazily to the carafes, he smiles a dare to anyone who has the courage to back their gossip-based convictions; surprise, no one does. He fills two cups, adding plenty of sugar and fake creamer, figuring Alicia can deal with Cas-style coffee, stops to grab more tortillas, and walks back, perfectly aware of everyone watching, the faint, uncomfortable whispers. Like maybe everyone in the room just realized they're an average of a decade and a half past passing notes in English class; a little late, sure, but he'll take what he can get.

When he sits down, Alicia is slowly rolling another taco up because she's got the sense to know a good thing when she tastes it.

"Thanks," she says with a bright smile as she takes the cup.

"Anytime," he says, rolling his tortilla up for another delicious bite; even without butter, they're awesome. "How long?"

"Since I came down," she answers, then takes an enthusiastic bite. 

"Anything else?"

She checks her chewing.

"Just the not-so-silent treatment or harassment?" he asks. "Alicia, you can lie if you want, but it won't change anything. I'm gonna find out--"

"I can take care of myself." She stuffs half the goddamn taco in her mouth: _bingo_ , that's where Cas got that shit. Chewing rebelliously--at least she's showing less 'animal watching for headlights'--she swallows, Jesus Christ, what the hell? "I don't need anyone to protect me."

Fuck his life, she sounds like Cas: word for word, even. What, did the two of them fuck then discuss how competent they are or something and don't need anybody? Actually, he can kind of see it.

"It's not your job to take care of this," he says, (quietly, but to be honest, he doesn't care if the peanut gallery hears this). "It's mine, so let me fucking do it. One question: did you tell anyone else about it?" She opens her mouth to say no. "Other than Kyle, I mean, and why the fuck are you protecting him?"

She shuts her mouth on whatever she was going to say, staring at him like she doesn't understand the question. "I'm not--"

"Yeah, you are." He thinks of Micah's answer to what Alicia would tell him if he asked her why their breakup involved weapons: _she'd lie_. "You done?" She looks at her plate in regret before nodding reluctantly. "Good. We're leaving; smile and look really happy about something while I take our dishes back to the kitchen."

Alicia's smile doesn't come anywhere near her eyes. "Why?"

"We're gonna talk," he answers, sliding her plate toward him. "Either stand up now or I go get Cas, and you can have this talk with him. You pick."

Her horror hits him like a blow; Jesus Christ, this was so much easier when the wannabe assassins weren't people he'd ever met. People who sat at his kitchen table drinking coffee and sewed up Cas's back and helped Joe on the border. Who in a thousand years he never would have guessed would kill anyone in cold blood. He wouldn't have even thought she _could_.

Still grinning like her muscles froze that way, she stands up, handing him her empty coffee cup. "Thanks."

* * *

Inexplicably, Haruhi, Rosario, Derek, and Vicky are already up and doing their damndest to be the best hunter bureaucrats in history. Granted, that's not hard; they're probably also the first.

"Hey kids," he says, wondering what Cas is doing to their recruits; Haruhi's got a laptop, Rosario and Derek are doing something with manila folders and labels that he just can't wrap his mind around, and Vicky is--okay, now he feels like a voyeur watching her with that laptop. "Take a break or something. You have breakfast yet?"

"I did," Vicky says, not looking up from the laptop screen, while the other three give him reassuring nods and actually make eye contact. 

"Okay, take everything to the next room and make sure no one comes in here," he decides, noting they all look relieved. "Secret mission, blah blah blah, don't want any interruptions."

"Got it," Haruhi says, and in very short order, the room is clear. 

Locking the door, Dean debates only for a moment before pointing to the broken down sofa and grabbing a chair for himself. Seating herself in the middle--smart move, the left and right sides both act like goddamn quicksand--she looks at him, expression smoothly, brightly curious, baseline Alicia; until now, he didn't realize that was something she actually practiced to get right, enough to put on at a moment's notice. She's not doing it so well today, though; the scarred hands are locked together in her lap like they might run away if she doesn't keep a tight grip. Or maybe she'd like to be flipping a knife.

Sitting down across from her, he starts with the first item on his list. "Did you tell Kyle about what happened here or did he tell you he already knew?"

"I told him," she answers immediately, but he's not watching her face anymore, it won't tell him shit. Her voice though--hesitation, just a second, and she's not lying, no, but there's something there.

"How'd he get you to talk about it?" Dean asks, picking up his cup with a casualness he doesn't feel. "Sympathy, empathy, a few shots of whiskey...?"

"All three," she answers easily. "Why does it matter--"

"Because I want to know whether or not he was stalking you in Ichabod before you got together," he says; that day they were digging a hole at Chitaqua, she was oblivious, but he wasn't. If he'd known more about Kyle, even guessed...what? Stalking Jane was still a joke, she didn't even take it seriously, but maybe, just maybe, she did; she just figured he wouldn't. "So how sympathetic was he? Almost like he already knew about it, knew exactly what to say, how to get you to tell him so he could make you feel better? Come on, if you can work out what the geas does with a goddamn library book and a list of random ass stories from those incoming, you can--"

"I didn't think about it," she interrupts, and the edge in her voice tells him that pisses her off. "Not until--not until later."

"Any chance that's why you broke up?"

She shakes her head. "No. It was--we fought about something else, and he said something.... Dolores locked down the infirmary to anyone not immediate family or medical personnel--or Alison and Claudia--so Kyle couldn't know the layout of the infirmary. He mentioned the back stairs--he said I told him."

"Did you?"

"I might have," she answers carefully. "I was drunk. Look, it's not important--"

"It's important," he interrupts. "Yes or no: do you think he followed you in Ichabod when you were here after the attack?"

Her expression doesn't change, but her knuckles go white, tendons standing up in sharp relief. "I can't prove it--"

"You don't have to prove it," he says. "Your word is enough."

She wets her lower lip, and even now, he can almost feel her fighting the automatic _no_ ; she'd lie, Micah said, like there was no doubt Dean would believe him, like there was no doubt Dean would never believe her now that Micah explained the situation. No doubt at all.

"Yeah," she says finally, the faint quiver in her voice jerking his attention away from wondering why Micah was so surprised Dean didn't take it on faith; how many times he told people that. And why he'd need to, come to think. "I mean, I think--"

"That's enough for me." It's on the tip of his tongue to ask exactly how much alcohol was involved with Kyle's sympathy that night, but that's one question he knows he can't ask, not unless she wants to answer it. That doesn't mean he's not thinking it, though, and now he can't stop. "You told Cas that he wasn't bothering you but probably wanted to; on a guess, you set the bar on 'bothering' higher than I would, so we'll do this categorically. Is he following you around, and by that I mean, he is where you are often enough for there to be effort involved to make it happen?"

Alicia's gaze flickers to some point over his shoulder. "I'm not sure. If--Matt and Jody could tell you--"

"Your word is enough," he repeats. "You don't need a single goddamn witness other than yourself. Now, where and how often? Volunteer Services, ended up with him getting assigned to the same place you were?"

"Yes. Maybe." Her gaze returns to him, wary. "I'm not sure. We all eat here, and...it's meal times. When I go on or off duty, but you know, our schedules might match, so I don't...I don't know. He doesn't _do_ anything," she adds quickly, like she's forming a character defense for someone not worth the mud on her boots. "He doesn't even come near me, even to say hi. Just...."

"Makes sure you see him watching you." She looks away, and yeah, that matches what Cas told him. "For reference; he cleared my bar for 'bothering' like he learned to fly just on spec. He doesn't have to break into your room and hold a knife to you throat for it to count."

"I can handle it," she says, and wow, how unsurprising is that? "It's just Kyle."

"It doesn't matter if you can," he says patiently. "You shouldn't have to. Is that why you didn't report it?"

The blue eyes study him for a long moment; that's one of the reasons she didn't report it. _She'd lie_ ; he bets he's not even close to the first person Micah told that. "If I did," like maybe he'll just ignore this, "what will happen to him?"

"Cas's decision," he says, and she stiffens. "But he asks me, he's out of Chitaqua."

She shakes her head. "No, not for me."

"Alicia--"

"Not when I won't be there anyway," she continues brutally, eyes fixed on the wall behind him, and honest to God, he would have rather she punched him. "Dean, it doesn't matter, just--let it go."

"It matters," he says quietly, and her gaze jumps back to him. "Not for yourself, fine, but it's not about you." That's a lie, but whatever, at least she's not arguing. "I let it go, what do you think happens the next time Kyle hooks up with someone? What if it's not someone in Chitaqua?"

She frowns, then swallows.

"Someone who can't handle it," he continues relentlessly. "Someone who might not even know how, especially when he wears a gun and belongs to a scary militia and she doesn't. You were on patrol, come on; until Harlin, no one would even speak to us. We got _lucky_ with the Alliance, and that's not gonna happen again. We're going to have to prove ourselves--to the Alliance, to every town, every goddamn day. Caesars' wife, Alicia; we can't afford the _appearance_ of shitty behavior, and Kyle...."

"Yeah," she agrees, and he thinks maybe she actually does.

"But it doesn't matter if he was the nicest guy on earth and you're the super special exception that unearthed his creep alter ego," Dean continues. "He did it to you, and that's enough." She doesn't argue, which is something. "That goes for what happened this morning, too. Now, was there harassment?"

"No, you saw it," she says grudgingly. "That's all, I--Dean, I brought it on myself."

He gives himself a few seconds to control his voice before he says, "You don't say. I gotta hear this."

"I went to talk to Carol yesterday."

Jesus Christ, even Cas wasn't masochistic enough to go find people to make him miserable, or at least, he made them just as miserable in return. "And then put a compulsion on her and Kat to do this? Didn't we learn from the geas how that ends badly?"

Alicia gives him a filthy look, but hey, it's a genuine, honest to God reaction; he likes those. "I just had to--it's private, okay? She was pissed, and with Andy--Kat's still, you know--" She glares at him. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because I'm your leader and--"

"You know what I mean," she interrupts. "Why are you--after I told you...." Thankfully, she trails off.

"What the _fuck_ does that have to do with anything?" he exclaims before he can stop himself, and Alicia leans back, eyes wide. "You didn't deserve Kyle stalking you because he's an asshole, and you sure as fuck don't deserve shit for doing your duty. Now, can you say you're reporting so I can get Cas's breakfast before he gets up and comes looking for me?"

She opens her mouth, but what comes out is, "You take Cas breakfast in bed?"

"Yeah, why?" He wishes he'd brought his coffee so he could take a casual drink. "He needs to eat."

She blinks at him, but he watches her hands this time. Her nails are bitten nearly to the quick, but in the bright light of the room, he can see every scar; thick white ridges and thinner, nearly invisible lines, thick calluses on the side and pad of her thumb and first finger and surprisingly, on the pad of the middle finger as well. Throwing knives: she works with thumb and first as well as middle: insurance against losing the use of--or losing altogether--her first finger. He'd bet her fourth finger's got them, too, and he bets she's just as accurate no matter which she uses for a throw.

He keeps his focus on her hands, keeps his mouth shut, keeps his expression neutral; if he has to do it for her, he will, but he wants her to have first option on it.

Abruptly, she loosens her tight grip, flexing her fingers absently against the couch. "Dean...."

He meets her eyes and waits.

"Dean," she repeats more strongly, eyes watchful. "I'd like to report that Kyle's been stalking me since we broke up and maybe before. If I'm not in my room or with my team, he finds a way to be nearby where I can see him; this includes the infirmary when I'm on duty, when I'm on assignment, and when I'm off duty. I saw him twice when I met Cathy for breakfast at the general mess, he was across the street last night when I went to Karl and Pedro's building for dinner, and outside Naresh and Suma's when I was there for lunch three days ago." 

Dean nods. "Just watching you?" Not anything else, he means; watching is shitty all on its own, it sure as hell doesn't need dressing.

"Until I see him," she answers slowly. "Then--then he goes away. Sometimes."

"And the talk about what happened when you were in Ichabod a few weeks ago?"

She takes a breath. "He's the only one I told. Unless Dolores told Carol--and she didn't--Kyle is the only one who could have told Carol and Kat." Then, "But to be fair to Kyle, he says stupid shit when he's drunk, and he may not have--meant to have it spread like this." She adds, "Unless we count Vera, which I don't. Only person she would tell is Cas, and he'd tell you, which is how you found out, I guess. When? Had to be yesterday; you would have talked to me already if it was earlier, but yesterday was a little too busy."

Dean fights back a chuckle; what can you do when you're sitting with a woman who actually _is_ the smartest person in every room she's ever been in? "We guessed about isolation: kids was yesterday, though. I would love to know how you do that."

Any other time, she'd grin at him outright, but he can still see the glint in her eyes. He can't get over how much she enjoys doing that, how people react when she does. Like it's still new.

"I'll hand it from here on out," he says.

She nods. "Should I--I mean, other people saw him, and I can--"

"I don't need anyone or anything else, just you," he says firmly, and for some reason adds, "You get you--if there's anything else you want to tell me, I'll listen. Whatever it is." Her expression doesn't change. "It matters, Alicia."

She looks at him unblinkingly for a long moment. "Okay. Good to know. Can I--uh...."

Yeah, that wasn't going to happen, assuming there's anything (assuming that anything is--something, whatever). "Yeah," he says, then frowns as she stands. "Hold up. Where're your weapons?"

She looks at him like he's crazy. "What?"

He motions toward the lack of weapons belt. "You're unarmed: why?"

"Under the circumstances, I thought...." She hesitates, finishing uncertainly, "...that I shouldn't be armed, you know?"

"Did I tell you not to arm yourself?" Alicia obediently shakes her head. "Did I remove you from your position as a team leader?" She shakes her head again but looks in danger of maybe asking him why that is; he keeps talking. "Then you will go upstairs, arm yourself, and be here for the meeting with the team leaders. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," she says immediately. 

"Dismissed," he says as he gets to his feet. Following her out of the room (and waving the kids back in to do their thing), he pauses at the sight of her at the front desk, her back to him. Jeremy looks worried (but not condemning, points to Vera, Joe, and Cas's parenting) but Joelle, who still has her coat on and must have just arrived, looks upset as she removes a thick knitted (not orange, he notices) hat, revealing her hair is covered beneath the folds of a scarf.

Quietly, he approaches them, trying to see what Alicia's looking at: a note. "Alicia?"

Joelle and Jeremy both jump, but Alicia doesn't move, lowering the paper and crumpling it in one hand before stuffing it in her jeans pocket. "Just Cathy canceling lunch," she says lightly, smiling at him. "I'm going to go see if Matt and Jody are up; not morning people, very cranky wakers, you know what I mean?"

He nods, watching her bounce toward the stairs like there's nothing on her mind but the day ahead, then looks at Joelle, who tosses her coat to Jeremy. "You scheduled this morning?"

"Mom said I should come early today," she says, holding his eyes. "And make sure people saw me. She's taking a second shift at the infirmary this morning, but she checked in with me so I'd...so I'd know."

Cathy was in the infirmary last night, and so was Carol when they took her back. "Whole infirmary?"

"Yeah," she says, nose wrinkling. "Mom said she can't figure out how anyone even found out, but she and Dolores are handling it. Isolation is privileged information, Dolores is the only one that even knows who...." She looks helpless. "Dolores already called in half the staff and started ripping them apart individually and in groups, but no one knows--"

"I do," he interrupts. "What else?"

"I was afraid you'd ask that," she answers, looking at Jeremy. "It's so stupid, Dean, it doesn't even make sense."

She really doesn't want to say it. "Joelle--"

"People are asking if--outside the walls," she says slowly, and right there, he knows what she's going to say. "They're saying you...that we--we should have checked them ourselves, that there was no proof they were infected. And that's why Alison got Callisto to clear burning them so fast, so no one would know." She makes a disgusted sound. "Like I said, it's stupid."

Callisto lost her cousin outside the walls. "Do Alison and Callisto know yet?"

"Yes and I don't know," she answers. "But--mortuary services is open for business, which is weird this early when nothing's going on. I noticed on the way over and figured you'd want to know."

Despite himself, Dean grins. "Good work."

"Good enough to start training when I turn eighteen?" she asks, and though she's smiling, she's serious. "Seven months from now, in case that's relevant."

"Your mom will kill me."

"My mom," Joelle answers, "is training to qualify for Amanda's next class. She and a few other are working on better ways to hide weapons in our headscarves." She points to her own, a patterned blue-green to match her thermal, as intricately folded as origami. "Mom asked me to test this one today; ask me what I’m carrying."

Dean takes a moment to visualize Maimouna--who is about five-five and looks as delicate as a porcelain doll--gutting a Croat and then remembers she's worked patrol; it's probable she actually has. "A stiletto?"

"Two," she says proudly; Dean's guess was literally that, and staring at her scarf, he tries and fails to work out how. "Point behind my right ear, the other at the back of my neck."

Behind them, the door opens, and it says no good things that he just stops himself from going for his gun. He almost regrets it; Joe's expression is grim, and Kyle's....

He may know why Callisto is up this early. "What happened?"

"There was a catalyst incident in the YMCA," he says, and Dean takes in Kyle's disheveled appearance. "They didn't even know it was happening until--anyway, Claudia and Naresh are handling it. Five dead, and they ask us to keep Kyle here and Naresh will come to question him."

Kyle's blank expression says nothing good. "Kyle?"

"I was helping deliver clean sheets," he says hollowly. "Next thing I know, I got eight people around me saying Chitaqua killed people and they...." He trails off, and following his gaze, Dean sees the blood on his coat and hands.

He glances at Joe, who nods: the five dead got that way by way of Kyle's gun. "Kyle, look at me." The dark eyes come up, pupils nearly swallowing the iris; he's in shock. "It's not your fault."

Kyle opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, and his eyes go right back to his hands..

"Leah, you and the rest of the team, check him over in the infirmary, get him something to drink, and I'll--" He's not sending Alicia, hell no. "Work out what's going on. Quiet room on the second floor, and stay with him, okay?"

"Got it," she says, glancing at Joe, who nods genially.

"And me?" he asks when they're gone.

"Go to Admin, you know the drill. I'm gonna go get Cas." The morning couldn't even wait until after breakfast, Jesus. "Make it fast. We'll be in the Situation Room."

* * *

Dean takes the precaution of using the back stairs--no idea why, it just feels right--carrying a carafe of coffee and a foil-wrapped bundle of breakfast tacos, sugar and creamer in his pockets, since this is not going to be a leisurely breakfast in bed after all but goddamn it, Cas is gonna get to eat.

Mindlessly, he jogs the last flight and shoves the heavy door open with his shoulder, and is almost ten steps into the white room before he realizes where he is: _fuck_ this goddamn building. Turning around, he eyes the place the door was without favor: he really doesn't have time for this shit.

Seeing the couch he brought in last time, he deposits everything on it for now, searching all the walls for another way out; nothing, what a surprise. Taking a deep breath, he turns to face the nearest wall and waits; might as well get this over with.

Ink slithers over the plaster, forming four pictures: Demeter, eyes alight in rage, one hand outstretched toward the dry, barren earth, the red-orange sun huge in the sky and beating mercilessly on the piles of skeletal bodies piled around her; dry-eyed and bitterly satisfied, Clytemnestra standing over Agamemnon in his bloody bath with an axe in her hand; Hecuba smiles, holding the eyes of the dead sons of the King of Thracia resting on her palm, their lifeless bodies at her feet; Medea, laughing wildly while her dragon-drawn chariot carryies her from the corpse of Jason' new-wed wife, body surrounded by the dismembered bodies of her own children.

And one more, as stylized as the first four: a younger Cornelia seated in an elegant sitting room, an adolescent Gaius standing at his mother's shoulder looking grim, a much younger, painfully thin Sempronia on the rug at her mother's feet with Claudia Pulchera beside her, all in the unrelieved black of mourning. Sempronia's head rests in her mother's lap, dark hair loose beneath her mother's hand, and Dean hisses at the sight of her tearstained face: one eye blackened, mouth swollen and bruised, shoulders hunched and stiff beneath Claudia's comforting arm.

Following Cornelia's gaze, he glimpses Publius just inside the frame on the far right, and in his hand is an unsheathed knife, blade gleaming silver.

Moving to the next picture, he sees Cornelia sitting at her desk and holding a piece of paper. A man with short, barbered hair and the wide purple stripe of a Senator on his tunic bows. "I'm at your service, _domina_."

"I understand educating your sons is expensive," Cornelia says pleasantly, handing him the paper. "As you are aware, I support education of the young. Please accept this."

Smiling, he takes it, tucking it into the sinus of his toga and bows lower. "Your kindness will be rewarded."

Then it's Publius in a variety of _tabilii_ , the first four with smiling senators offering nods and thank you; the fifth raises his chin and shakes his head at the offered scroll. Rising with a smile, Publius bows and leaves.

The picture beside that one comes to life, a deserted road outside of Rome late at night, and a litter is stopped by a group of masked men. The man within the litter sticks his head out, demanding something, and he's dragged out as his slaves run away. 

Dragged to his knees, he stares up at them in horror as one of the men stabs him in the heart, waits for him to die, then takes out a handful of sticks and places it on his chest. "For remembrance," the man says in Publius' voice.

"What the hell...." Dean starts as Publius appears in Cornelia's _tabilium_ , once again the elegant knight, smiling as he sits down, and Cornelia makes a mark on that tiny scroll she was looking at last time. Dean looks at his companion, not entirely surprised to see her dressed once again as a Roman noblewoman, unscarred arms emerging from a dress the same unrelieved black as Cornelia's. "That list--who's on it?"

"If I were guessing," she says, not looking nearly as surprised as she should, "it's a list of those responsible for Gaius Sempronius's death, from knights of the First Class to Headcount."

"She's killing them?" She nods. "For _votes_?"

She looks up at him. "No, she's killing them because she wants them dead; the Senate just gave her a reason. A woman who kills a man in vengeance is simply a woman, emotion rules her; one that kills for politics is a competitor, her offering is to ambition, and Rome respects ambition."

"That's not better."

"That's survival," she says succinctly. "She doesn't have a choice, Dean."

"There's always a choice," he argues. "She's doing this for _money_!"

"Not everyone can fake credit card applications when they need cash," she answers hotly. "If she'd stayed in Misenum, she'd be dead, and every Gracchi with her. There's been a knife to the throat of everyone in her household since the day Gaius Sempronius was murdered, including little Sempronia's. There's only one thing that can stop a knife in Rome: money, and a lot of it. She has one chance--one--to get this right, and her life and the lives of Claudia, Sempronia and little Sempronia, what remains of the Fulvii Flacci, the families of those killed by Opimius, and every tenant and retainer of the Cornelii or Sempronii Gracchi ride on her doing this. She needs money to get that knife away; she needs the Senate to be afraid to make sure it never comes back. You think she doesn't know how much blood is on her hands? She'd sell her _soul_ if...."

Dean waits out the silence for as long as he can, uncomfortably aware he's not sure how to answer that. Two wrongs don't make a right, sure, but not doing the wrong doesn't get any better results here, not if she's right. And nothing he's seen so far tells him she's not.

Finally, just to break the silence, he asks, "Well?"

She shakes her head, frowning at nothing. "Nothing, just thinking."

Dean backtracks and has a really horrifying thought. "She didn't--"

"No, she couldn't; Crossroad demons can't manifest at any crossroad in Rome and nowhere a Roman Crossroad college exists. You wanted to sell your soul to a demon, that took effort, assuming they'd even let you. Roman citizenship, useful like that."

Dean straightens. "Who?"

"The Lares," she answers, then seeing his expression, explains. "The Lares are....not gods, but forces of the cosmos, I suppose. Rome made contract with them, as we did with the gods. The Crossroad Colleges see to the maintenance of the crossroads and offer to the Lares there; in return, they protect us."

"From _demons_?"

"From making deals with them, yes, among other things," she says. "Why?"

"Where can we get some of those?" Not gods, they escaped Lucifer's purge, so far so good. "Like, summon them, what?"

"They're everywhere," she answers in surprise. "You know not of them?"

"I don't." Before he can ask for more information, he hears Cornelia say, "We'll start with these," and hands Publius three more scrolls--regular size ones, Dean's relieved to see. "I want them introduced to the Senate immediately; we've wasted enough time."

In the Senate, the consul calls for a division and Sempronia Graccha Minor, daughter of Gaius Sempronius Gracchus and Licinia Crassa, is awarded the (mostly non-existent) Gracchi estate in preference to any past, present, or future male claimants and made sole heir to the whole of her grandmother's estate with a _lex Voconia_. The auction bill follows it, and there's more debate and the three-fifths discount fails, which worries Dean until he sees Cornelia's amusement when she receives the news. "Okay, what?"

"It was never going to pass," she says, echoing Cornelia's amusement. "She was just making a point."

"What point--" Women are emotional, he remembers. "She wants them to think she's weak."

"And driven by revenge, at least for now," his companion answers. "So they won't think too hard about what she's trying to do."

"Now the next three," Cornelia says, lying three scrolls on the gleaming citrus-wood desk. She looks thinner, and standing behind her, Sappho and Cardixa both look worried. "The return of the Gracchi property and fortune, the reversal of the proscriptions of my son's followers, and...." She pauses, weighing one in her hand. "Their fortunes and properties. I have the amounts of each listed by _gens_."

Dean looks at his companion. "Not the _nefas_ thing?"

"No, she wants the Gracchi fortune first; she's got to get rid of that knife before she can do anything else," she answers, eyes narrowing. "The property of Gaius's followers all together is many times over greater than that, even at auction prices. The revocation of the proscriptions of those families--and the Gracchi fortune--will be allowed to pass just to stop that one."

"Money."

"Don't let anyone tell you that you can't put a price on a human life," she answers. "The price of hers, Sempronia's, Claudia's, little Sempronia's, and everyone under Cornelia's hand is the Gracchi fortune; money is a better deterrent than a sword."

"I get that," Dean answers patiently. "But why would they give it to her?"

His companion smiles slowly, eyes on the picture. "She's a woman, what does she know of politics? More importantly," she adds, "Sempronia Graccha Minor will one day be a woman, too, and they have unloved wives as well as sons."

The picture changes; Publius goes to more senators, casual and calm, and nodding happily when they take the scrolls eagerly and the paper tucked inside each ("Bank draft," his companion tells him. "Cash is heavy. Do I understand you use plastic cards for that now? That's genius. Who thought of it?"). There's another division and two of the bills pass with way too much excitement for people handing over a really large fortune to a woman whose sons they killed. The Gracchi fortunate is secured; combined with what she'll inherit from Cornelia, Sempronia Graccha Minor is heir to the single largest private fortune in all of Rome, held in trust by her grandmother and more bankers than he knew existed.

"Holy shit," Dean breathes, craning his neck to read the papers in front of Cornelia: prime real estate both in Rome and throughout Italy and Africa, insulas in half a dozen cities, estates, farms, fish farms (fish farms?), interest in dozens of ships, mines, sleeping partnerships in corporations, the list goes on; it's too much to even work out actual value. "That's--a lot."

"In Cornelia's time, fifty talents was a lavish dowry for a girl," she answers, and he chokes; just one of those fish farms was double that. "Sempronia Graccha Minor is now officially inviolable; they'll be offering to the gods every time she gets the sniffles now."

He remembers what Publius said about girls and their dowries. "Protected?"

"Cornelia set it up herself," she answers. "A husband might try, but it's ironclad. Even Mater wouldn't be able to break the trust and lose it, not that she would have even tried." Her voice turns wry. "Or her heir, for that matter." She makes a face. "I did try, yes. Balbus had the grace not to laugh at me while I was sitting in front of him, at least."

"Claudia's and Licinia's dowries," Cornelia says, looking thinner and even more tired, but the dark eyes burn with energy, like they're feeding on Cornelia's body. Sappho, seated in the background and at work on scribe's table, watches her sharply. "And the proscription of my sons and their status as _nefas_ , so that their names be cleared and I can pay their fare."

"Are you certain you do not want to introduce the bill regarding Fulvius Flaccus now and use it to gain the other two?"

"No," she says. "That one will be last."

Publius studies her for a long moment. " _Domina_ ," he says, and Dean goes on alert at the switch from Cornelia. "Please hear me out. Gaius loved him and he Gaius, and his courage and ethics there can be no doubt; after his consulship, he was stood for tribune of the Plebs for your son to help him continue his reforms. He was a popular consul and respected general who earned a triumph from the People, and despite this, Opimius murdered him on the Aventine like a dog in the street and two of his fine sons as well."

"I know this," she agrees.

"Then you also know," he continues, "that they would have the Fulvii Flacci erased as entirely as the Sempronii Gracchi with the death of your sons. They will not allow that child to come to manhood and take his father's place in Rome, _domina_. If any of your sons' sons had lived, the same would have been true of them."

"I'm aware," she says. "More than one senator who voted to uphold my granddaughter's right to the Gracchi fortune was thinking how well that fortune and mine would fill his family's purse if she should be taken to wife."

"If you wish to do this," Publius says, and even Dean can hear the sudden wariness in his voice, "coming to agreement with one with sufficient influence would greatly increase its chances of passage."

"No." Her mouth tightens, something very old and unhappy filling her eyes, but her voice is cool. "Children serve their families in all they do. For the daughters of senators, marriage to those who can serve their family's ambitions is the price they pay for the privilege of education, literacy, wealth, and never to fear hunger or privation. For my little Sempronia, it will be no different; she has neither father nor brothers whose ambitions must be considered, so her family's ambitions are these: she will be given in marriage to one who may need her fortune to serve his ambitions but will also make her a happy wife."

Reaching across the desk, Publius takes Cornelia's hand, looking into her eyes. "Neither you nor Gracchus could have known what he was when you made contract for Sempronia; we knew him from childhood and saw it not. It is the rare man who was as he."

"My little Sempronia has neither father nor brothers to protect her," Cornelia answers. "Only me. And I doubt I will live to see her wed. I must be sure, Publius, and I cannot be if I use her to acquire votes on the Senate floor." She pulls her hand away. "See to those two so we can introduce the last. I grow weary of Rome and cannot leave until all is done."

Publius takes the two scrolls and bank drafts, securing them in his toga before bowing low. "As you wish."

Publius visits senators again, and Dean notes the difference in their behavior but somehow, he gets the job done with only two tiny piles of sticks. Then Cornelia looks up at him and hands him the last scroll. 

"There's going to be a fight," Publius says quietly.

"I know," she says. "And I shall win."

The rounds of senators this time are fast, flipping by at speed and (a couple of times) a door is shut in Publius's unsurprised face. 

"Fulvia Ursa," Cornelia tells him, not looking up from her writing. "I need a quorum in the Senate for it to be discussed, and a simple majority is sufficient for its passage. Give her this so we can start." Cornelia produces a small velvet bag and hands it to Publius, who opens it to allow the rich color of the red stones in the intricately wrought necklet to catch the light. "Tell her if she would like a crown, she must earn it."

"As you will," Publius says, secreting it away in the sinus of his toga. "Who should I ask to introduce it to the Senate?"

"I have a volunteer," she replies, mouth quirking bitterly. "It seems my Licinia's death was not in vain after all."

In the _Curia Hostilia_ , an elderly man rises from his ivory curule chair in the front row--a consular, got it. "I would speak," he says, and despite the fact he looks about a hundred years old, the guy's lungs are in working order. Dean notes the startled faces of some of the Senators, and for that matter, his companion looks equally surprised.

"Who's he?"

"Marcus Licinius Crassus," she answers. "The elder, I mean. Licinia's grandfather. He's been retired in the country for decades. I'm not sure anyone even knew he was still alive."

"You are recognized," the consul says, trying to look bored, but Dean can feel the growing anticipation.

"This is a petition asking for the recall of the only remaining son of Consular Gaius Flavius Flaccus, murdered on the Aventine Hill by Consul Opimius," he says clearly; you can't buy that kind of venom, "and last of his _gens_ of that _cognomen_." Over half the Senate is on its feet, shouting, but the guy just grabs more lung power from somewhere, shouting in stentorian tones over them, "His exile ended, his citizenship restored, and the proscription on the Flavii Flacci rescinded!"

Dean takes a step back at the sheer volume coming from a goddamn picture. "They know he's alive now." Abruptly, a younger guy throws a punch at the guy beside him for no reason (well, okay, there was something about someone's feelings about fish in there, he thinks). "What the fuck?"

"Senatorial politics," his companion tells him and grins as two elderly senators get in an actual goddamn fist fight on the Senate floor, stools flying everywhere. "I love politics."

The shouting (and fighting, holy shit, they're brawling _on the Senate floor_ ) doesn't end until after the sun goes down. "Voting can only take place between dawn and dusk," she explains, and nauseated, Dean watches as the number of piles of sticks increases over days. He can't help but be fascinated by the regular throw-downs on the Senate floor between guys old enough to be his grandfather though; he's also pretty sure most of them could beat him up before breakfast while calling each other impotent goatfuckers over his bleeding body. 

That part's fucking awesome; Granddad Licinius just kicked the ass of one of his sons-in-law while ten ancient (seriously ancient, like almost mummies) senators scream encouragement and hit anyone who comes near them with their walking sticks that look suspiciously like branches they picked up on the walk to the Senate this morning. Some still have _leaves_.

Then the scene abruptly changes to Sappho and another servant who's holding a wooden tray of bottles, and Dean just stops himself from yelling to take them back to Calpurnius sobbing from a bloody nose while two grandpas tell him all about how he lacks a cock and offer to show him (and his wife) what one looks like and how to use it. 

Under her breath, his companion mutters something he takes as yeah, she's kind of disappointed, too.

Picking up one, Sappho opens the stopper and takes a quick sniff, nodding. "Very good," she says, setting it back down and taking the tray. "You may go. Inform me if Cornelia asks for me."

Balancing the tray on one hand, Sappho pushes open the door to the bathing room just as Sempronia stands up, dark hair piled on her head and leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.

The thing is, he never would have imagined this.

"Sappho!" Sempronia freezes, half turned, but Dean can't stop seeing the mass of ridged scars covering her back from shoulderblades down to her upper thighs before they disappear into the water. 

" _Di Omnes_ ," his companion whispers, and Dean mind helpfully offers up what did the damage; a cane, a whip, a leather belt, a switch from a tree in the peristyle garden that Sempronia had chopped down the day of her husband's death and burned with his body. Years and years of those from the look of it, and he glimpses more on her small breasts--Jesus Christ--her belly, the fronts of her thighs. He looks at his companion's dress and then at Sempronia: everywhere a normal dress would hide them, son of a bitch.

"Get out!" Sempronia shouts, face flushed red in humiliation as her thin hands fist at her sides. "I'll have you whipped...." Her voice cuts off and, looking nauseated, her shoulders bow as she closes her eyes. Taking a shaking breath, she says, "Leave me. Now."

"Yes, _domina_ ," Sappho answers, voice startling calm, her expression showing nothing but disinterest. "Forgive me, the oils your mother ordered arrived. Let me put them away." There's a brief pause as she glances into the hall before shutting the door firmly. Carefully not looking at Sempronia, she puts them on a small table, taking time to rearrange them for no reason Dean can figure out. "Would you like me to fetch your maid, _domina_?"

"No." Sempronia still hasn't moved. "Nissa is otherwise occupied." From the way she says it, Nissa is always occupied when Sempronia decides she needs to bathe.

Sappho nods, turning with one of the bottles in her hand. "Allow me to assist you, then."

Sempronia's expression turns to horror, mouth dropping open, but Sappho simply walks to the edge of the tub and sets down the oil. 

"Sappho, you will--" Sempronia's voice cuts off as Sappho loosens her dress and it falls to her feet. Stepping out of it, she picks it up, tossing it toward the wall.

Dean isn't the kind of guy who spies on naked girls in bathtubs--bathing rooms--but _holy fucking shit_. Sappho is really....

"Healthy," he blurts out, and feels his face heat. "She's--uh, doing pretty good since she got here. Good to know."

"That's what I was going to say," his companion answers breathlessly, and glancing at her, he's relieved to see the same expression he feels on his own face. Sappho could model a Greek statue or something: full breasts, a narrow waist and slim hips, overall drop-dead gorgeous. She's almost unreal. "My maids never stripped down to bathe _me_ ," she adds, a note of disappointment in her voice. "And none of them looked like that."

The movies lied; he should have known. "So this wasn't standard?"

"I wish. Clodius would often join me in my bath, however," she answers distractedly as Sappho joins a silent Sempronia in the bath like the opening scene of all the porn ever (or should be), water lipping at her skin until she's submerged to the upper thigh and therefore leaving Dean no safe place to look. "He preferred to be the one to bathe and oil me. A well-made man indeed, but no Sappho."

Huh. "That fun? The bath thing?"

"I recommend it," she says, then hisses, and Dean follows her gaze back to Sappho and stills; as Sappho half-turns to get the oil, they can see the barely visible silver lines that cover almost her entire back. Sempronia closes her mouth, but she stands very still as Sappho gently pours the olive oil in her hands before stepping behind her and starting with Sempronia's shoulders. 

"Relax, _domina_ ," Sappho says in the most normal voice in the world. "I was well-taught; tell me if you feel any discomfort."

At the first touch, Sempronia shakes like a leaf, but Sappho knows what she's doing (so you can take classes in bathing people? Who knew?); each touch is firm and impersonal, yet somehow soothing as well, at least from the way Sempronia relaxes. Unmarked shoulders and arms first, all the way to the fingers, her neck, using the strigil to scrape away the oil and dirt before she starts on Sempronia's back. Sempronia stiffens, biting her lip, but slowly, she relaxes again, eyes closing in sensuous pleasure as Sappho works down to the curve of her ass and uses the strigil again.

By the time Sappho comes around to face her, Sempronia's hot color's faded enough that its return is really noticeable. Pouring out more oil, Sappho works down her chest, oblivious to Sempronia's embarrassment.

"Your last master flogged you," Sempronia says suddenly and looks appalled at herself. "You need not speak of it, of course."

"No, not him, _domina_ ," Sappho says, rubbing in the oil beneath Sempronia's breasts. "My first owners: my mistress, not my master."

Sempronia head comes up. "Why?"

"When my master ordered me to his bed," Sappho answers calmly, but the flat edge he remembers from when she told Cornelia about that is evident; she really, really doesn't like remembering that, and on a guess, it's not just because of the beating after. "She liked it not."

"You healed well," Sempronia whispers, something fragile in her voice. "A slave who bears the marks of flogging--it can be difficult for them to find good masters."

"My second mistress saw to that," Sappho answers, smiling faintly, as she always does when speaking of Maria. "She was a good physician and taught me a great deal. She also recommended I avoid letting my skin darken in the sun so they're less visible." Her smile fades. "I was fortunate; Grania scarred the face of the one he took before me. My master forbade her to do that again; he had to sell the girl at a loss and that displeased him greatly."

Sempronia doesn't look surprised, but the revulsion in her expression and the set of her jaw reminds him of Cornelia when Sappho told her life history. "My father said the measure of a man can be taken in these three things: the state of his horse, the welcome of his wife, and the contentment of his slaves. A man's truest nature is revealed not in his behavior to his equals, his betters, or even those beneath him, but to those within his hand."

"Your father was wise," Sappho says with a flickering smile at Sempronia, and the comfortable silence between them continues as Sappho helps Sempronia out of the bath and she's stretched out on the padded table. Getting more oil, Sappho goes to work, and suddenly, Dean's really aware he's watching two naked women. "Would that all Roman owners were as kind as your father."

"It's not kindness."

Sappho pauses briefly, the barest check in her movements. "Yes, _domina_."

"Have you ever seen a pack of dogs turn on the weakest of their number or those injured?" Sempronia asks abruptly, sitting up to look at Sappho, who takes an abortive step back.

"I have, _domina_ ," she agrees, oily hands hovering uncertainly. "Why?"

"They are dogs; they have no judgment, they do not think," Sempronia answers. "That is their nature. He who flogs his horse, his wife, or his slaves has the nature of a dog; he is no man. It's not kindness, Sappho; my father was a man, as were my brothers after him. Say rather would that all that wear the shape of men be truly men; most are not."

"Or women, _domina_?" Sappho says lightly; Dean didn't realize she'd tensed until she relaxes now.

"Or women," she agrees, mouth quirking as lies back down, submitting to Sappho's ministrations. "My mother is head of this house, mistress of its fire and water, not me; when you speak to me, 'Sempronia' is sufficient."

"Yes, Sempronia," Sappho says obediently, and Sempronia doesn't wince at all as she works the scented oil deep into her skin, eyes falling closed in sensual pleasure. Naked women, Dean's mind offers helplessly, and he represses it firmly, concentrating on Sappho's face; that's a mistake but also a revelation. Unobserved by Sempronia, her expression isn't 'doing duty whatever' but more 'I could do this for the rest of my life for fun'. Huh. Seems like she shares more with Sappho the poet than just a name.

"I see why Cardixa welcomes you now," Sempronia says drowsily as Sappho works down her calves. "She was jealous, you understand; she's been with my mother almost all her life, as close as sisters." Then, with an acidic edge he's never heard in Cornelia's voice, much less Sempronia's, "Far superior to her only sister of birth. Cornelia Major was far too infatuated with her high position to notice someone as mundane as a little sister. She was like their mother and cared for three things only: her rank, her husband, and her wardrobe, in that order."

"You liked her not?" Sappho asks.

"I liked her very well," Sempronia answers. "But for what she was. It's a difficult lesson for many, for some impossible." There's a thoughtful silence before she adds, "Harder still is to use those you like not; even my mother finds difficulty in that."

Sappho hesitates. "I did not know that."

"Aemilia Paulla, wife of Cato the Elder's eldest son, was my husband's sister," she says. "The sons of that union may be their mother's son's in their snobbery, but they're no less of the Catones Licinianii; you want to break the will of the Plebian Assembly, that needs a Cato." 

Sappho finishes with Sempronia's feet and at a touch, Sempronia rolls over, and Dean's once again really aware he's watching one naked women being massaged by another naked woman (Sappho's expression immediately rearranges itself to neutrality).

"I thought the Catones did not share _amicus_ with the Cornelii or the Sempronii," Sappho says carefully. "Cato the Elder was enemy to the patriciate and the old Roman families."

"This is true," Sempronia answers. "But the Catones Licinianii bear the existential burden of their grandfather's peasant birth and his second marriage to Salonia; that's the Aemilia in them, no help for it, but it's a bore indeed. Those of Salonia's get are of far better quality and would serve our purposes well, but none of them are of age to be of assistance. However, an invitation to the Catones Salonianii to dinner will prick the Catones Licinianii, who are so thin of skin a single scratch will draw blood; they will do whatever required to assure they are seen as Cato the Elder's true line. My mother is the first woman in Rome; she must use it."

Sappho nods slowly, and Dean's concentration on the conversation breaks as she starts to work down Sempronia's chest; sure, this is important (probably?) but Jesus Christ, who knew politics happened in the bathing room? A vision of Cas discussing camp business while giving him a bath flashes through his mind; okay then, so that's definitely going to happen as soon as they get back to Chitaqua. They're gonna need a better bathtub; maybe he should build a new bathroom as well.

After a moment, Sappho says, "The reason your mother's dislike of the children of Cato the Elder's eldest son has often eluded me."

A slow smile spreads over Sempronia's face, and Dean's startled by the change; she looks years younger, and there's a brightness to her that wasn't there before, like the kind of person you'd have a beer with while she told you all the best gossip. "How Roman you grow, Sappho; you couch your curiosity in such innocuous terms. Publius and my mother did well with you."

Sappho flushes, looking disconcerted. "I do not--"

"I am not so delicate," she continues, smile turning into a grin. "Don't look so. She dislikes the Catones not for their bloodline, but for their ethics. Cato the Elder was a brilliant man, but those born of his first marriage to Licinia beat their wives and their slaves; those born of his second marriage to Salonia do not. Salonia's influence, of course, but then, she saw to her son's rearing and education after Cato died, and she was far superior to Licinia--or Aemilia--no matter her ancestry."

Sappho tilts her head. "Your mother liked her as well."

"She was among my acquaintance in Rome," Sempronia says, voice taking on an edge. "My husband liked it not, but I liked her very well. We had much in common. I miss her still."

Yeah, Dean thinks, thinking of Sempronia's back; he supposes they did have a lot in common.

"Nothing is lower to a Roman of the First Class than a wife-beater; they are dogs," Sempronia continues, expression distant. "That is their nature, they have no reason, they will not change; like all dogs, when they grow rabid, it must either be tolerated or they must be killed; they will bite, the only question is when."

Dean was pretty sure after seeing that picture of Publius what happened to Scipio Aemilianus Africanus (especially in light of those piles of sticks), but he's still surprised to hear Sempronia say it, voice thick with hatred and fear and relief, too. 

"The Catones Licinianii may be dogs," Sempronia says abruptly, looking faintly annoyed with herself, "but that is an asset in this case; like a dog, when they sink their teeth into something, they will not let it go. My mother knows that as well as I do; it's time she set aside her dislike and finished this."

Sappho concentrates on Sempronia's stomach for a long moment before slowly working down to her thighs; despite how painfully thin she is, the strong musculature in her legs shows she really likes to walk, and then she stretches, spreading her legs for Sappho's ministrations and his mind shuts down.

"Breathe, Dean," his companion says in amusement and he looks at her incredulously. "It's just a massage. A really....thorough one."

"This part," Dean tells the wall above Sempronia and Sappho, "is just like the movies."

"I do not think," Sappho says slowly, working the oil in slowly, which hey, points for her work ethic, "that your mother will welcome such advice from me."

"She will," Sempronia answers, eyes closing. "Tell her to expect my attendance at both dinners two and four days from now. She will understand."

Sappho's hands falter, and Sempronia's eyes open, curious. "I understand better," Sappho says quietly, "why you go not into Roman society. Surely--surely it can be avoided, your health--"

"I'm a Sempronia Graccha," Sempronia answers, voice quiet. "If my brothers could face a mob bent on their deaths without fear, I can face a dinner party."

Dean looks at his companion, whose surprised expression tells him he's missing something. "She doesn't like company."

"She doesn't like Rome," she corrects him as Sappho assists Sempronia to her feet. "And no fault in her, for how they treated her was a disgrace."

Dean thinks of the scars with an internal wince. "Why? If he was beating her and everyone knew it--"

"Not many did," she answers grimly. "The rights of a _paterfamilias_ are absolute when it comes to those in his hand, and those that didn't like it simply avoided him. Sempronia had great pride; she would reveal to no one what he did to her, and to cover for her frequent public absences while she recovered, her husband would call her misshapen and barren and of nasty temperament. We can be cruel, Dean; she bore it because she had to, but it makes it no easier now that all know."

"Gossip," he says in disgust; wow, he's getting tired of it. "Why didn't she leave him in the first place?"

She looks up at him in surprise. "How?"

"She could just...." He trails off, adjusting his thinking. "She literally couldn't."

"Literally," she answers slowly, "she could. She could return to her family and petition for a divorce, though he might not allow the last. She was a Sempronii and granddaughter of Africanus, and her family would have protected her. It would have created a permanent rift between the families, however; her husband was Cornelia's first cousin through her mother and adopted son of Cornelia's brother, and he was guardian of Sempronia's brothers after their father died."

Dean cocks his head; he's not liking where this may be going. "So what, her brothers would pick him over her?"

"Of course not," she replies impatiently. "They were not dogs but truly men; they would have given her protection and support without question. Even the Sempronii could not have easily weathered the disgrace of it, however, and her brothers' careers and work would have been impaired; they would have cared not, but she would have cared very much. He was family, Dean; how do you tell your brothers that their beloved guardian and friend treats you with less consideration than a mine slave? How could she bear for them to see the proof...." Her voice falters, and Dean tries to imagine showing anyone--anyone at all--the kind of scars that Sempronia has, explain where they came from, and can't.

"So she stayed for them?"

His companion hesitates, and he realizes she's rubbing her forearm, absent of the criss-cross of open wounds; that doesn't mean they aren't there, though. Invisible wounds are still wounds, and harder to heal because of it; you can almost pretend they aren't even there. "I don't know why she stayed," she says softly, and he has the feeling it's not just Sempronia she's talking about.

He thinks of the picture, Sempronia's bruised face, Cornelia and Claudia and Gaius all in black--no Tiberius, though. They were in mourning. "What changed her mind?"

"Tiberius," she says softly. "She discovered that her husband conspired in his death and went to her mother. All Rome knew Cornelia and Sempronia were responsible for Scipio Aemilianus's death --no other way could Publius have gained access to her husband's home and cubicle to kill him so easily without Sempronia's assistance--but none cared. It is a _paterfamilias_ right to do what he will with those in his hand," she adds, voice lowering, "but that makes him no less a dog; no one mourns the death of a dog that bites."

"So her being at dinner," he says, changing the subject. "What does that mean?"

"He was a bad husband, but his name, at least, has some worth," she answers, a thread of relief in her voice. "The widow of Scipio Aemilianus Africanus Minor, consular, censor, and general as well as adopted grandson of Africanus, isn't to be despised. The fact she'll see the Catones Salonianii when she's seen no one else will assure the Catones Licinianii will burn down Rome itself if it assures she'll see them as well; they'll pay the price she asks for the favor without question. Very well done."

Dean glances back at the scene and realizes they're back in the Cornelia's _tabilium_ ; Cornelia looks exhausted, and Sappho and Cardixa both watch her as Publius enters with a low bow, looking solemn. To his surprise, Sempronia is in attendance, seated in a low chair just behind and to the right of her mother, expression impassive, Nissa standing behind her.

"That doesn't look good," Dean murmurs as Publius formally seats himself across from Cornelia.

Cornelia seems to feel it as well, bloodless lips tightening. "The vote was taken?"

"It could not be delayed," he answers soberly. "A division was called a quarter hour before the sun set."

Cornelia waits, but Publius isn't biting. "And?"

"By one vote," he says, dragging it out, "it passed. The proscription of the Flavii Flaccii has been rescinded, their rank reinstated, and they've been recalled from exile; Gaius Flavius Flaccus's father's property is still forfeit to the State, of course, but his mother's dowry was returned in full, and serendipitous indeed, a mysterious benefactor assumed to be a Fulvius who does not want the stain of treason but wishes to help has augmented it. It's enough to assure his mother's comfort as well as his membership in the First Class and his rank senatorial when the census is taken. He'll be able to stand for office."

Cornelia leans back, eyes closing in relief. "It worked."

"We also have someone to take the bills before the Plebian Assembly," Publius continues. "He spoke to me after the vote was taken; he'll convene the Assembly tomorrow and introduce them _en toto_."

"All of them at once?" Cornelia asks blankly. "To the _Plebian Assembly_? Are they suicidal?"

"Who is this brave Roman?" Sempronia interjects before Publius can answer, and Cornelia half-turns to look at her daughter. "Such a man is a treasure indeed."

"I am pleased that you asked," Publius replies airily. "Coincidentally, the same man whose vote gave us a majority in the Senate: Marcus Porcius Cato Licinianus, tribune of the Plebs and current president of the Plebian Assembly. I almost forgot--he sends his regards to you, Sempronia, as well as your mother."

Sempronia nods, folding her hands demurely in her lap as Cornelia regards her thoughtfully. "Tell him we will welcome him and his wife to dinner before we leave Rome," Cornelia says. "Hopefully, that will be soon."

"He did not think it would take long," Publius says. "The Catones are not known to dither."

"Interesting." Dean looks at his companion, who cocks her head. "Our Cato is smarter than I thought. Rome is going to adore him; he'll be elected to any office he wants if he can pull this off."

"Can he?" Dean asks, thinking how hard it was to get some of those passed in the Senate, especially the last one. "Doesn't the vote have to be unanimous in the Assembly? One veto kills it."

"The Plebian Assembly is the most popular entertainment in Rome for the People," she answers, "and the People loved Gaius Sempronius, and they'd burn Rome down for Cornelia. Right now, word is spreading through Rome that tomorrow, Cato is going to bring all Cornelia's Senate decrees to the Assembly for ratification. Cornelia only owns half of them; getting the rest is up to Cato."

Abruptly, the picture spreads out to encompass the entire wall, and Dean sees a tall, skinny guy, almost swimming in his whitened toga approach the rostra, dark haired and unassuming, but with a nose that rivals an eagle. Before him is spread what looks like all of Rome, anticipatory and waiting; Dean looks at him as he fussily rearranges his toga and tries to be impressed.

Then he opens his mouth. 

" _Quirites_ ," he roars, and holy shit, that guy must have a built-in microphone or something; even Dean takes a step back at the sheer volume. "Today, we speak of injustice--no, I will _not_ ," he interrupts himself, and a sigh goes through the crowd; like them, Dean waits for it, breath caught in his throat. "Today, I will not prevaricate; today, I will speak nothing but truth; today, I will speak the words and you will hear them and know them as true. Today, we speak of _murder_ , for what else do we call it when innocent men die without trial?" It's impossible, but he seems taller, looming over the rostra and the tiny, insignificant men behind him. "We speak of Gaius Sempronius Gracchus, of Consular Gaius Fulvius Flaccus, and the thousands of Roman citizens that died by the Senate's decree without a trial!"

Behind him, half the solemn tribunes jump in horror and the crowd roars its approval loud enough to shake Rome itself.

"A true Cato," his companion says approvingly. "Go straight for the throat and don't let go. He's setting them up; a veto on those decrees will be seen as support of Gaius Sempronius's murder. By the time Cato finishes his opening speech, anyone who vetoes will be seen as personally stabbing Gaius Sempronius to death in the Grove."

Dean eyes the crowd uncertainly. "Tribunes of the Plebs are inviolable."

"They are," she agrees. "But throwing them screaming from the Tarpeian Rock doesn't count."

"They won't...." Cato is still talking, and the crowd is like a single living thing, huge and ineffable and impossible to control, held here only by the power of Cato's voice. Dean watches as the scene changes; always Cato in his white toga, always that huge, endless crowd, hungry, starving, and Cato feeds it: their rage, their grief, their hunger for vengeance. What Cornelia did from the Forum grounds Cato does from the rostra itself, a bludgeon to Cornelia's elegant rapier, but it gets the job done just as well. Now, he can see why Tiberius and Gaius Sempronius Gracchus were so dangerous to the State, why their mother frightened the Senate; demagogues aren't just in what they say or how they say it, but the unbending will that backs it, the spark of something within that can ignite a crowd to believe them, purely personal power that can leash--or unleash--a mob. Cato has them as surely as any Gracchi and won't let them go, and not one of the other tribunes doesn't see that crowd dragging them screaming to the Tarpeian Rock on Cato's word.

Scanning the crowd, he finds her immediately; in a shadow by the shops of the _Tabernae_ is Cornelia in black, veil obscuring her face and Sappho beside her, watching, and even from here, he can see her faint smile.

Eight days, only two tribunes are holding out; thirteen, and there's only one; on the seventeenth, that one--visibly bruised and limping, and from the way he's standing, some ribs might have suffered--sullenly withdraws his veto.

"Thank you for coming so quickly," Cornelia says abruptly, seated at her desk in the _tabilium_ ; her face is thinner, skin stretched tightly over her cheeks, but it's the strange blankness in her eyes that makes the hair raise on the back of his neck. Wary, Publius does, and Cornelia takes out a scroll more crumpled than rolled. "The Pontifex Maximus conferred with the other pontifices," she says flatly. "And it has been decided that my sons status as _nefas_ cannot be lifted due to a black dog interrupting the sacrifice of the white bull. The gods have spoken; Charon remains unpaid, and my sons' shades left to wander."

Publius's eyebrows raise. "How did a black dog find itself in the precincts of the priests?"

"Carried physically, no doubt, by the Pontifex Maximus himself just for the occasion," she spits, throwing it on the desk. 

"The Senate--"

"When it comes to religious law, it could be decades at the best of times," she interrupts. "Cato will try to force the Plebian Assembly to pass a new bill to overrule it, but he was not optimistic, and in this much, I trust his judgment." 

"Then we will try later," Publius says firmly. "The Senate is...itself. There is time, Cornelia; you are not like to die so soon that failure is inevitable. What else? Claudia?"

Cornelia's expression remains unchanged, but Dean can't help but think of Licinia. "Emet sees her twice every market interval, and her maid follows his instructions to the letter. He says it is _melancholia_ , and its progression, while slow, does not seem to be improving, though the worst has been arrested, he thinks. The blow of Licinia's death was too much for her, and with this...."

"It is not an uncommon malady," Publius says encouraging. "There are many treatments for it, all know that. When we return to Misenum, the change of scenery alone will do her good; surely Emet will find better success once we're in the country."

"Emet says the same," she says, and he sees her relax slightly. "He has consulted among several Greek and Roman physicians as well who are familiar with it and has already asked to join my household." She makes a face. "The Ambassador has made it clear this is very acceptable to him, as someone told him I do not keep a physician, and he would like to attend me and Sempronia as well."

Publius raises his eyebrows. "Strange, that. I wonder who could have been so indiscreet?"

"I wonder," she says sourly, but her smile comes out. "You mean to join us? I didn't want to presume, but I'd hoped you would."

"Where else would I go?" he answers, elaborately nonchalant. "My younger brother sees to the honor of our _gens_ , and is far happier in Rome when I am not."

"Your brother," she says succinctly, "is an ass. And what of Titus Annius?"

Publius makes a face. "He must marry, we both know that," he replies. "He is first in his family to reside in Rome, the first to be elected to office; his duty is clear."

"But less clear when you are by," she says softly. "Can I help?"

"Find him a wife," Publius says firmly. "He would be a good husband, but a wife would--find difficulty if she was not aware of his--preferences. One who...would be content with what he can give. A friend and partner, yes, but he cannot give more."

"I thought you wanted something hard." Publius straightens. "A widow, thirty-five, so still young and fertile, of excellent family and wide connection, with one son and daughter living. He can adopt the son if he wishes, but I think she would be willing to bear more children. Since her widowhood, despite her limited circumstances, she has--not been amenable to marrying again, and I assured there was no financial need for it. For reasons I think may be compatible with those of Annius."

Publius stares at her. "How did you--"

"I very much enjoyed his company at dinner," she answers. "My acquaintance is vast, and I explored it. I would not cause you pain, however."

"It would relieve my mind considerably to have him settled and content," Publius says with certainty. "Who is she?"

"Cornelia Germanica, called Germanica; her grandfather served under my father in Carthage; they were great friends," Cornelia answers. "He was the first of their family to be elected consul and thus ennobled them. There are no males of his line left, only Germanica, and she has been under my protection since she was widowed, of course. Her family served my father well so want for nothing."

Publius starts to answer, then sees Cornelia's mischievous expression. "Great friend to Africanus? Like brothers, one might say?"

"Certainly not," she says with dignity. "At least, from what I understand of the closeness of brothers; I am but a woman, after all, and know not the ways of men."

"You're incorrigible." Publius shakes his head. "Consular stock and granddaughter of one of Africanus's...generals." Cornelia looks more dignified still. "Would she agree, however? Annius is only a New Man."

"I think she would. She's extremely well educated, intelligent, cultured, witty: the ideal political wife. An excellent politician as well: if she were a man, she would be consul in five years' time. To be partner to a man who wishes to be consul--especially a New Man--would suit her very well. I will arrange it once we return to Misenum, let them meet and see what comes of it." She studies Publius for a moment. "Is something--"

"I meant to comment on Sempronia but you distracted me," he says. "I had not thought to see her so animated as she has been the last weeks." Cornelia's expression softens. "Do you know the reason, for I do not."

"Emet tells me that to treat someone as if they are made of glass will convince them that they are," she answers, the sourness this time broken with a rueful smile. "I know not what happened, no, but Sempronia has submitted to Emet's rule with poor grace, which he says is very encouraging, for a patient that does not argue is a patient whose spleen needs relieving. Now, Publius, I know your face and all its moods; tell me what pill I must take that requires this much honey to swallow."

"I meant to wait until I was certain, but that is prevarication; I am certain now." He settles himself, mouth tight. "Opimius."

"What of Opimius? His trial proceeds apace."

"He will be acquitted," Publius says quietly. "Carbo has done his work well. Doubtless the proceeds from the sale of all that property helped a great deal to convince the jury of his innocence."

Cornelia doesn't move. "My son, his followers, and three thousand Roman lives ended without trial mean nothing, then."

"They're to be the example of the Senate's power," Publius says quietly. 

Cornelia is silent for a long moment. "I wish you to accompany my household back to Misenum in two days' time."

"And you?" he asks.

"I need to finish with my bankers," she answers. "My little Sempronia's future must be secured. Before you leave, however, I will need you to set up a meeting for me with Decumius of the Crossroad College; tell him 'for remembrance'. He will understand."

Publius hesitates, licking his lips. "Cornelia--"

"I built a temple to her; she refused my offering and turned a deaf ear to my pleas," Cornelia says tonelessly. "Diana promised my son Rome would pay; it has not."

"What are you planning?" he asks.

Cornelia's eyes fix on the scroll. "Arrange it, Publius. Now leave me."

Slowly, he rises to his feet. " _Domina_ ," he says with a bow that makes Cornelia wince. "As you will."

Dean opens his mouth then shuts it; the scene changes abruptly to late night, two shrouded figures in the alley behind Cornelia's house. One of the figures--unmistakably Cornelia--nods at the shorter figure's deep bow. 

" _Domina_ ," he asks in the patois of the Subura, "what is your will?"

"Can you read?" she asks with none of her usual warmth.

"I can, _domina_ ," he answers. "I can count as well."

She hands over the tiny scroll. "I think you know how best to use this."

He takes it, opening it and skimming down the list, lips pursing. "Some of these, _domina_ \--"

"You cannot do it?"

He grins at her. "I can, of course. It will take time, however."

"You have until my death," she answers. "Is that time enough?"

"It is," he answers, closing the scroll. "My fee?"

"What is the price for a market interval of wine for your college?"

"Equal to each name on this list," he answers, and she nods agreement. "It shall be done, _domina_. For remembrance."

"For remembrance," she agrees softly. 

Dean swallows at the scene begins to flicker through various scenes, just slow enough for him to see they're all death. "She's killing them all." A glance at his companion's face confirms it. "She got what she wanted. This isn't about anything but revenge."

She doesn't answer. 

"So that 'without a trial' thing is bullshit," he continues. "Only counts if we like 'em--"

"You don't understand--"

"I get murder," he snaps. "I get killing a whole bunch of people just because you're pissed at them. What, back then there was another word for it?"

"Who are you to judge what she did? You know nothing of politics, of--"

"I know revenge," Dean says quietly; in his peripheral vision, a guy in a plain toga abruptly stops short, blood spilling down his chest from a slit throat. For a moment, the guy's face is Micah's, then Alicia's; he focuses on his companion, feeling sick. "That list? Not all of them put their blades in Gaius themselves."

"They were part of the mob that stalked him," she retorts. "They were under the command of those who ordered his death. What does it matter if they didn't do it personally; they belonged to the men who caused Gaius's death. That is reason enough for them to die."

The picture shows a small cottage, a man come to the door in the plain clothes of a farmer, and behind him, a wife and small children; he only has time to open his mouth before his throat is cut. Thankfully, he only sees the woman's mouth open in horror, the children's shocked faces; the scene cuts before he can hear them scream. Doesn't help: another cottage, somewhere else, another guy, another family, it just doesn't end.

He meets his companion's eyes. "Where's the door?"

"Dean," she says quietly, "you--you can't understand."

For the first time, he realizes she's wearing the sword again--or maybe it just appeared now. He flexes his hand---feels okay--but he can see even sheathed there's something different about it, something--off. Any other time, he might want to check it out, but right now, he doesn't care.

"You're right, I can't. Where's the door?" Going to the couch, he retrieves Cas's breakfast and looks around: no door. "Well?"

She stares at him, mouth tight, then points behind him; look at that, a door.

"Thanks," he says, starting toward it. 

"Dean," she says just as he reaches for the door. "They--why does it matter? They were just--"

"People," he says, opening the door to the hall to his and Cas's room. "And they mattered. If you're calling me here for this, stop; I'm done."

* * *

Despite the fact Cas dressed so fast he's pretty sure non-existent Grace was involved and the Alicia method of eating was utilized (Dean mentally reviewed the Heimlich Maneuver twice watching that), they barely get downstairs before Joe returns, looking not quite as grim but still not good.

"Alison says it's on the list," he says, dropping on the couch in the Situation Room with a sigh. With Haruhi's team on duty on Seventh, the room feels unnaturally quiet, and now has unattended laptops that may or may not tempt Cas into spreadsheet theory or whatever. "Don't have much yet, obviously, but it says something she already heard about it along with the catalyst event. From what she understands from Claudia, it's coming from the refugees, but which, who knows. Dolores is pissed, if that helps; I told Alison about this morning with Alicia and how we think it got around, so on a guess, Carol's dealing with Dolores about now."

He looks at Cas, slumped on the arm of the couch, one foot on the cushion. "What do you think?"

"I think it's truly an amazing coincidence that we hear this one--accusing us of killing people with supposedly questionable Croatoan infection status--at the same time as the one accusing Alicia of murdering small children who were already Croatoans. If they aren't related directly, they will be soon."

Dean sees it, but---oh. "They're going to forget the 'Croat' part when talking about the kids, got it." Sitting back in his chair, he tries to think. "Let me get this straight; the one about me started _this morning_ and is already over half of town and part of a catalyst event in the YMCA? Even for gossip, that's fast."

"I think it started earlier, and on a guess, Claudia knows it, too," Joe offers. "Especially if it started with the refugees, and you can't blame 'em--"

"Yeah, I can," Dean interrupts.

"They're in a shitty sitch, in a town of strangers, and they're gonna get conflicting information no matter how much Claudia and the other volunteers work to make sure they hear what actually happened. The rumors aren't the problem, that's standard anywhere, ever, and that one's a natural; it's the consistency and speed that are the problem."

Dean starts to protest then thinks better of it. "What do you mean?"

"Good detail work," he answers, crossing his arms. "The rumor mill's a game of telephone, but this one--at least, the versions I've heard, the ones people actually believe--are too consistent on what actually happened and are reasonable extrapolations--hell, if I were among them, this one I'd listen to. They're not saying you did it for fun; they're saying you did it on spec. Not actual dismembered exposure--"

"--but simply possible." Okay, that is reasonable, and in a sense, true. No, he didn't call in anyone from Ichabod to check, but even if everyone there was miraculously not Croat infected, they were dead; fast or slow, what a Croat did to a body for fun didn't _couldn't_ survive it, not for long. "Like the military when they closed the borders."

"That's what they're thinking, yeah. And that's not past tense; anyone found in the buffer zone is shot on sight." Joe sighs. "For better or worse, we're a militia, and we don't need uniforms for people to know on sight what we are. Dean, this isn't the refugees fault; if anything, it shows their survival skills are in working order. They're trapped here, so damn straight they're not going to dismiss anything until they're sure. The problem is, this one doesn't just sound reasonable; it's hit critical. Enough people have said it--and enough people believe it--that it's as good as true. Add in the Alicia thing--and that one's still confined to Ichabod's own mess, but not for long--and of course they're going to believe it."

"So we're all murderers," Dean says out loud; yeah, that sounds shitty, period. Then he catches Joe's faint smirk. "What?"

"Well, one of us won the lottery," Joe says casually, leaning back and balancing his right ankle on his left knee. "Two, rather. Guess who are the saviors of Ichabod right now? Hint: he killed five Hellhounds with his bare hands, she brutally beat a couple to death with her gun and drove the other off with a determined grimace, to protect a sad group of civilians--or retrieve bodies, or just for sheer righteousness, pick two--and I want to be there when Sarah hears about this."

Dean starts to grin at Cas's horrified expression. "Five?"

"I corrected a couple of people, upped it to six and Sarah three," Joe says smugly. "Even people who saw it live are starting to wonder if they forgot how to count. Which was a lot of people, by the way, even people who were asleep or on the other side of town. Though to be fair--"

"There weren't that many on duty on the wall," Cas protests, and oh God, of course he didn't notice.

Dean exchanges a helpless look with Joe, and realizes he's up. "Cas, you led a fucking procession to the walls--"

"We just walked up the street."

"Procession," Dean says clearly. "Cas, all that was missing were some trumpets. Jumping off the wall like Bruce Willis should be taking notes was just icing. I got there just ahead of not even standing room only."

If anything, Cas is even more horrified. "They need to be corrected--"

"Good luck with that," Joe interrupts even more smugly before he leans forward, looking between them. "But you see what I mean on consistency? Cas's has like, a dozen variations, not a surprise; yours has all the pertinent facts, just the wrong conclusion. Alicia's is still spreading, but there's almost no chance with yours out there, this won't be 'Croat kids' but 'kids who may or may not have been exposed to Croat'."

"Almost like it's not just random accident." His candidates are the idiots two of Micah's--fuck if he can remember their names--but why is up in the air. If a mob comes at their building to kill them, Micah probably shouldn't want to be in it at the time. "And to top it off, a catalyst event, first in three days. And Kyle killed five of 'em."

"I was going to pretend that didn't happen for a little while longer," Joe answers. "No injuries, by the way; five dead, that put the room below threshold and it broke. Kyle doesn't miss."

He waves Joe silent at the knock on the door, followed almost immediately by Vera peering in.

"Hey," Dean says, getting to his feet as she and Amanda come in, looking her over before checking Amanda's expression; survey says, good. "How you feeling?"

"Fine," she says with a shrug. "Haven't slept that well in years." Her eyes dart around the room briefly before focusing on Dean again. "Look, you and Cas have a minute? Patient confidentiality and everything."

"Dean," Amanda says, "I'm going to check the wall, see how it's going. We have two teams of recruits up there and I want to--"

"Scare them?" She nods hopefully. "Go with God."

"I'll go with you," Joe says, heaving himself off the sofa with a grunt: right side, quicksand, he called it. "Teresa's running patrol today, but Manuel's reporting what's going on with the investigation. Dean, you mind?"

"Meeting in an hour," Dean answers. "Brief Amanda on this morning, would you? And keep me updated if we're accused of murdering anyone else. Especially if there are bodies involved."

Joe salutes on his way to the door. "Got it."

Cas locks the door behind them before abruptly hugging Vera, who looks two parts surprised and one part pleased, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

"I'm fine," she says against his shoulder. "Promise. Just--weirded out."

"Sit down," Dean says, and grabs a chair as Cas and Vera take the sofa (center, smart of 'em). "What do you remember?"

"I was possessed by a god so I could help deliver her into a baby," Vera says in a breath, looking between them and sighing when they nod their reassurance. "Good, that happened. Also, I know Hindi--sort of. At least--that's Hindi, right? Sudha got a huge kick out of it when I checked in this morning."

"Yes," Cas answers, tilting his head. "What does 'sort of' mean?"

She makes a face. "It's coded to someone speaking to me, I think. Didn't even realize it until Sudha started giggling."

Cas says something that Vera responds to immediately, and she sighs. "Yes, it's probably coded, but we'll check the limits on that. Can you tell?"

"Not really," she answers with a grimace. "I mean--not at first. People's expressions help. Did I mention the giggling wasn't just Sudha? Rabin sounds like a five year old girl."

From her discomfort, he's gonna guess this is something she's only going to talk about under duress and that'd be Cas's job. "How's Sudha? And Jaya?"

"Great," Vera answers with a relieved smile. "Jaya's fantastic, already on a meal schedule. No problems with let-down, either. Breastfeeding," she says deliberately, eyebrow raised at Dean's expression (he's not sure what it is, but she seems to find it really funny). "Even under normal circumstances, it can be a problem, especially with new mothers."

Okay, then. "So you were in the infirmary--"

"Heard it, and heard Dolores making some people really miserable," she says, smile fading. "Carol?"

"Carol and Kat." Vera's expression hardens. "And Kyle as source."

"That fucker," she says succinctly, which as far as Dean's concerned isn't bad assessment of his character. "If there's anything else, any chance I can get some coffee? Ours is better than the infirmary."

"Cas will fill you in on this morning," he says, meeting his eyes and seeing his nod: everything but the part about Micah being under their protection. "Be right back."

* * *

Dean (not an idiot) brings back three cups, balancing them carefully and ignoring Joelle and Jeremy's grins when they see him; what, he can't be leader of Chitaqua and get people coffee?

When he gets inside, he does a quick assessment and realizes that the meeting is in less than two hours and dropping this on her then isn't going to get him any points. Handing over two of the cups, he sits down and tries to think how to explain.

"We're meeting in a couple of hours to talk about Micah." He'll just say it. "He wants protection, and we're gonna give it. As soon as Naresh clears it--probably early this afternoon but with everything else, who knows--we're moving him here."

Vera's expression doesn't change, looking from him to Cas and then back again. "This is where you say 'just kidding'." 

"Vera," he starts.

"He's a murderer in intent if not in fact," she says, twisting to look at Cas. "You can't be okay with this."

"Our options are to house him here and give him our protection or risk civilian lives," Cas answers. "It's the lesser of two terrible options."

"You missed one, a good one," Vera retorts, looking at Dean. "Throw his ass outside the gate and let him and Erica get re-acquainted. They were buddies, did you know that? Got a lot in common, too. Worked together to try and kill me and Cas, I thought you knew about that? Didn't he tell you or something?"

"I know." He meets her eyes. "It doesn't change our job description."

Vera wets her lips. "Cas, could I talk to our fearless leader alone for a minute?"

Cas flickers a glance at him and at his nod, gets to his feet. "I'll...do something useful not here."

When the door closes, Dean sits back. "Go ahead."

"Tell me when our job description covered saving a guy who probably is going to Hell soon anyway, so why not let nature take its course?"

"He is," Dean answers steadily. "He's under contract."

"Even better," she spits out. "I like a guarantee. Let's get him going now, no reason to wait."

Alicia flashes through his mind. "Preview of the meeting--"

"If you think I'm coming to that fucking meeting--"

"Vera." She shuts her mouth, glaring at him. "He sold his soul with a gun to his head, same reason he was one of the ones that went after you and Cas. And he's not the only one."

"Ask me," she says flatly, "if I care."

"It's not your job to care," he says. "But it's mine. You think I like this?"

"I think you're ordering us to protect--ordering _your boyfriend_ to protect--one of the people who tried to kill him! Who does that, Dean?"

"He agreed with me."

"If you told Cas to cut his throat, he do it and not even ask why," she retorts, dropping back against the couch, and Dean wonders if he should be glad that her coffee cup is empty so if she throws it at him, at least he won't get wet. "Jesus, we worked so hard to keep it a secret; what the fuck was the point? We told you then, nothing would have changed. We'd still have spent two years with a camp of potential murderers waiting to kill us, but hey, the mission, right? Now it's 'protecting people'--"

"I'm not inviting him back to Chitaqua!" Dean snaps. "For fuck's sake, when this is over, he gets a trip to the border and out of Kansas; Erica wants him then, she's welcome to him!"

"What's the difference between now and then?" she demands. "When this is over, he won't need protection? He won't ask for it?"

"We won't be guests of this town and he'll be under our authority," Dean answers. "He confessed: the penalty is exile from Kansas. When he's ours, he answers for what he did against us, but not until then. We can't just come into a town and start killing people in it because we don't like 'em." Especially since they apparently are getting a reputation for that."

"Good leader, right." 

"Okay." He pulls his sidearm and holds it out. "Go ahead."

She looks at it like it's covered in Croat. "What?"

"Micah's at Ichabod's prison thing, second floor, end of the hall to the right," he answers. "They'll let you through. I saw your marksmanship; you can get him before he even sees the gun."

Her hands clench into tight fists. "Fuck you."

"What's the difference between me doing it and you?" he asks, holstering it again. "He wants to walk out there and hand himself over to Erica, fine, I sure as fuck won't stop him. But any other way, it's murder."

"Never stopped you before," she answers coolly. "His life worth more than twenty-six innocent people with Croat two days ago, more than Debra, more than every fucking person you killed because they were at the wrong place, wrong time?"

He expected it, thought he was ready for it, but a punch is always a punch, and nothing prepares you for a knife to the gut. "You're out of line."

"I apologize," she lies. "Forgot: because Croat, that makes it okay. So that's it? Mission first, last, and always?"

Rules exist for a reason; some are bullshit, but not all of them, and he's starting to get not only is there a difference, he may not ever know why. This one, though, he knows in his bones; you can bend some, but some you can't, not and still pretend they exist. This is one of them; they can't break it and still be hunters. He's not sure they can break it and still be _people_. "It has to be."

"Right. New verse, took a while but it's same as the first, I know this one. Welcome back, Dean Winchester: I didn't miss you at all." She gets to her feet. "Permission to leave, sir?"

He thinks a lot of things and says none of them. "Yeah."

Dean hears the door open and close--no slam, very deliberately--and then once again. Cas eases himself down where Vera was sitting. "Dean?"

The first time he was shot, it was half an hour before he felt it; until then, the only way he even knew it happened was the blood. "How much did you hear listening at the door?"

Cas shrugs. "All of it." The blue eyes regard him curiously. "You do realize if you told me to cut my throat, I'd tell you--"

"--to fuck myself," Dean finishes for him, wishing he could at least fake a smile. "I know." Then, "You'd kill him, wouldn't you?"

"Dean--"

"Not asking my second in command or Cas of Chitaqua," Dean says. "I'm asking an angel of the Lord. What would you have done?"

Cas tilts his head, and before his eyes, Cas sloughs off all the human trappings between one moment and the next. An infinite ocean of drowning blue, a sky of stars and galaxies that goes on forever: "We were the Host. We had the right of immediate execution for any trespass against my Father's will both in Heaven and on Earth. By our judgement, his actions merit execution."

Dean blows out a breath.

"Unless ordered to do so, however, we wouldn't have done it." 

Dean looks his 'huh?'; that usually works.

"We have killed great-grandparents to babes barely born," Cas says, the echo of infinity in his eyes and his voice. "It was our duty and we carried it out; that is what we were. Micah's sins merit execution, yes, but so do many; only a handful ever felt our wrath." With another shrug, Cas is a slumping militia member again. "Why, I don't know and don't pretend to."

Dean tries and fails to map that onto anything he can use here. "That's--I don't even know what that means."

"I think," Cas says thoughtfully, "it means the Host is a terrible role model."

So that didn't help at all, and now he's also confused. "Right. Are you okay with this?" What he'll do with the answer, no idea, but he needs to hear it.

"Yes," he answers without hesitation, and Dean wants to believe him so badly he's not sure if he's telling the truth or not.

"He tried to kill you." 

"That would be the reason he's not on my Christmas card list," Cas tells him solemnly, and despite himself, Dean snorts. "If you wish to know if I'd kill him now...." 

"Well?"

"I want to," he admits. "Then again, I want to kill all of them, and most are dead."

That's what he figured. "Yeah--"

"That doesn't mean I should," he interrupts. "Or that you should, or the militia should be used as a private army bent on vengeance for me or anyone else. Dean, if you think I expect you to abandon your duty as Chitaqua's commander as well as your ethics as a hunter for me--"

"You think I wouldn't?"

Cas snorts, and Dean's so startled by that he misses Cas getting up until abruptly, he's got almost six feet of former angel straddling his lap and there goes thinking. "I should have asked first," Cas says, bracing his forearms on Dean's shoulders. "Is this unprofessional while we're on duty?"

He wraps his arms around Cas's waist just in case he tries to do something stupid like move. "Dude, that's crazy talk. What if we...run out of chairs? Sitting on the floor, that shit's unprofessional as hell."

Cas ostentatiously looks around the room. "I think we have enough chairs--"

"I can fix that."

The knocking at the door only belatedly registers as something he should care about, and Dean wonders how many times in his life this is going to happen. A lot if they keep having meetings in their cabin when they get back to Chitaqua.

Then the door opens, and Dean sees Cas's smile vanish. Turning his head, one look at Joe's face brings him and Cas both to their feet.

"Something tested the ward line," he says without preamble. "Teresa doesn't know what."

"We'll be right there," Cas says, which is good because Dean is still working on words. "I'll get our rifles and meet you in the lobby."

Dean nods. "Thanks."

* * *

Dean scans the horizon from Ichabod's walls and empty road as it trails off into the dip. He never realized until now just how much brush there is, though it's the reason Ichabod's been able to hide for so long. There's nothing to see, of course: just a snowy late morning.

The quality of the silence tells him that even if he can't see anything, it isn't because there's nothing there to see.

The west-facing wall is solid with those on wall-duty (and some he's pretty sure aren't) straining to see something, and Vera's actually got a fist in Amanda's jacket due to her straining forward like staring hard enough will do the trick and not lead to death-by-falling (or death by whatever may be out there). They're doing a pretty good job ignoring each other; the reason she came when Joe went to get her can probably be expressed by the words 'Amanda' and 'possible danger'. As a preview of coming events at the meeting, it wasn't encouraging; it's not like Micah was liked by pretty much anybody, and adding 'attempted murderer' isn't going to help.

"Dean?" Teresa prompts, and glancing at her, he takes in the dark circles under her eyes. Dropping his gaze to the wall, where even from here he can see the too-thin fingers are starting to tremble, he wonders just how much of a strain the wards have been on her, especially with the Croats two days ago. She's still not tapping the earth, but all that means is that it's all coming from her.

"Give us a sec." Beside him, Cas is scanning the area, expression blank, and Dean can actually _feel_ Cas wanting to try his see-everything and end this with an aneurysm, so no. "Anything?"

"Nothing," Cas says finally. "Teresa, you're sure something touched the ward line _here_?"

"Only thing that has since the Croats," she answers, voice flat. "Easy to get location when there's nothing else around." She frowns as she studies the wide open space that was the scene of a lot of fighting two days ago. "Okay, anyone but me wondering why we haven't been attacked by anything else? We got, what, a day and a half before it breaks?"

"Dusk tomorrow," Cas agrees, lips tightening. "There should be some activity by now, yes. It can be partially explained by the wards; now that you have an anchor to use, they're far stronger, and it makes us far less vulnerable prey. For many things, the wards can be sensed at some distance"

Right, and that's probably _a_ reason, but not the one Cas doesn't want to say; it's kind of what they aren't saying is probably out here right now, morning after a god was born on earth. "You think the Misborn scared them off?" He'll say that part.

"I think that attracting the attention of something that can--and has--killed gods isn't recommended," he answers obliquely. "At least, not to anything with a modicum of intelligence."

Dean licks his lips and decides to get this over with. "Cas, are they what tripped the wards?"

"I'm trying very hard not to think that," he answers grimly. "Vera, did you see James' team this morning? They don't go on duty until this evening, but I suspect Nate might have wanted to check on the baby."

"They were still in the infirmary when I left," she answers. "They were helping one of the other women get settled; she's due tonight, I should check on her when we're done here."

Dean looks at Teresa, who shrugs helplessly. "Could Alison--"

"Dean," Cas says quietly.

Following Cas's gaze, he sees a slim figure in red standing just short of the ward line, dramatically giving no shits she's in a sleeveless dress while standing in about a foot of snow, icy wind barely moving her hair. He'll give her this much; she knows how to make an entrance.

"Erica," Amanda says softly, automatically shifting half in front of Vera as she stiffens and takes a step back, and Dean hears a safety pulled. Glancing over, he sees Amanda's eyes narrowing, her sidearm in her hand, and worse their two teams of recruits are close enough to see it.

"Stand down," Dean murmurs, checking the area behind Erica and not seeing anything, which means jack shit. As if aware of them watching--and by that, he knows she is--she tips her head just enough to feel like she's staring into the eyes of everyone watching her. "Cas, what are the chances she's alone?"

"She's not," he murmurs back. "Two on her left, one to her right, twenty feet and sixteen respectively."

"You can see 'em?"

"Don't need to," Amanda answers from Cas's other side. "They're there. Question is, who?"

Dean starts to say 'demons', then realizes what she meant: members of Chitaqua. Ichabod is turning into the worst family reunion in history.

The silence breaks with a word, projected effortlessly despite the distance. "Castiel."

Dean fights the impulse to step in front of him so she can't see him. "Go ahead," he murmurs at Cas's glance.

"What do you want?" Even Dean's impressed by the way Cas can make a four word question sound like trumpets should be playing and a chorus getting involved for the grand finale. A quick glance confirms those who only heard about Cas being an angel just got an idea of what it must have been like when Gabriel--fuck him--decided it was time to let Mary in on the entire Jesus thing; it's kind of funny, and he files it away for later appreciation.

"To talk." No coy demurrals or saccharine word games: even the way she's standing--straight backed, chin up, gaze direct--isn't like any demon he's ever met. It is, however, a lot like a hunter stands, evaluating the situation and working out how to handle it. He can easily see her in old jeans and a faded army jacket on a hunt, holding a rifle and watching the backs of her team as they watch hers. "What are your terms?"

Dean sucks in a surprised breath. "She's gotta be kidding."

"I don't think she is," Cas answers, barely a breath, but something in his voice makes Dean look at him sharply. Raising his voice, he asks her, "What are yours?"

"A truce will be in effect from the moment of your agreement and continue until you are again standing where you are now and verify its end," Erica answers, voice clear. "The Crossroads itself will enforce the terms as confirmed by the Host."

"It's a trick," Amanda says, which is exactly what Dean was thinking. "You don't think--"

"Hold up," Joe interrupts, shouldering between Amanda and Cas to look down at him curiously. "Crossroads can do that when it's not a contract?"

"It's very much a contract, simply not one for our souls," Cas answers, meeting Dean's eyes in reminder.

"We're not falling for that!" Amanda exclaims. "She's fucking with us."

"She isn't," Cas responds. "At least, not in this. Crossroads oversees all contracts, and those for souls are only a part, albeit a large one. She wouldn't invoke it if she wasn't serious."

"It's _Erica_ ," Amanda argues. "What difference--"

"So everything--the terms, the participants--have to be accepted for it to work?" Joe asks, like it matters or something, sine they're not doing this.

"Yes," Cas starts.

"Right," Joe interrupts. "Cas, don't say another word; I'll handle it."

"Why?"

"Because if we're gonna do this, I should do it," Joe says, startling Dean. "By 'we', I mean, me, not you. You're not a negotiator, Cas."

"Do you think I haven't had to deal with demons before?" Cas asks.

"You have done contract negotiations with a demon?" Joe asks, crossing his arms and raising his eyebrows in not even polite disbelief. "Or you were in the room--or multidimensional space--where it was happening?"

Cas's eyes narrow, but noticeably, he doesn't answer.

"That's what I thought," Joe says. "Lots of fighting and looking fierce--hey not knocking it, you're good those--but zero sitting at the negotiation table, am I right?" Joe stares at Cas until he reluctantly nods. "Nothing--and I do mean nothing--is simple when it comes to contract. Me, I've had a gun to my head and still walked away with what I needed and that's not even an exaggeration." He pauses, frowning. "Can I do it for you? I mean, can you appoint me to represent the Host here even if I'm human? To confirm, I mean? I assume that's how this works."

"Tell him," Dean says, curious where Joe is going with this; its' not like they're going to actually do it, so why not? Especially since hey, no Host.

"Castiel," Erica interrupts, right on schedule. "I require an answer."

"Yes, the Host can appoint a representative; can you imagine Michael deigning to speak to a demon?" No one can, as it turns out, even Dean, who kind of met the guy. "Gabriel did it when he was among us, though Zachariah--Joseph, what are you--"

"Appoint me," Joe interrupts. "Cas, not joking here: I'm human, does it matter?"

Cas stares at him, and after a moment, Dean identifies that look as 'humans are sometimes rather slow'. "Humans have at one time or another represented my Father on earth. Does that answer your question?"

Joe grins. "It does. Okay, tell me what to do to get us a little time."

"Just tell her," Cas says, starting to look curious. "She can accept or deny it, but if she truly wants to speak to us, she'll agree."

"Okay--" Joe starts to turn toward the wall.

"Don't use your name."

"She knows my name...." He trails off when he sees Cas's face and nods before turning back to face Erica. "As appointed representative of the Host, do you accept my authority to speak for them?"

Erica doesn't hesitate. "I do."

"We are requesting a moment to consult," Joe tells her, projecting effortlessly in what Dean assumes is his negotiation voice: calm, clear, and really certain of getting his way. "Ten minutes, at which time you can consider our silence a rejection of your offer. Do you agree to our request?"

"We?" Dean mutters and gets a stern look from Cas. "'We' sound ridiculous, for the record."

"It's a--"

"Figure of speech, I know," he says, rolling his eyes.

"I do," Erica answers, a thread of amusement in her voice. "This is a one-time offer; I won’t ask again."

Joe nods, stepping back as she vanishes into the brush in a flicker of red, and looks at Dean and Cas thoughtfully. "That was interesting."

"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" Dean demands.

"I'm curious as well," Teresa admits, cocking her head. "In case this isn't obvious, we discourage suicide missions. In case that's relevant."

"It is," Dean says firmly, glaring at Joe and Cas. "Well?"

"Yeah, I do. Some things don't change, and this is one of them." Joe looks at Cas. "This is contract. She wouldn't pull this unless it was serious."

"Doesn't matter if she is." Cas looks at Dean in surprise. "There's nothing she's got to say that's worth sending Cas outside these walls alone."

"Then we specify I don't go alone," Cas says (tone: 'humans are rather slow', thanks, Cas), which is exactly the kind of shit Dean really hates to hear. He can almost see how much Amanda is fighting the urge to jump up and down and say she's in, because Cas didn't just pass on skills when he trained her; he passed on all his crazy, too. "An escort is always considered acceptable and is protected under the terms of the truce."

Dean wants to point out what happened the last time Cas went on a playdate with a demon and doesn't; that's for later. "You're kidding, right?"

"If we want to try, I can work with this," Joe says, looking between them. "You two need a minute?"

"Yeah, thanks. Everyone, back a few steps, pretend not to eavesdrop," Dean says, going a few steps away and waiting for Cas impatiently before whispering, "Tell me what you're thinking."

Cas steps close enough that his hip is pressed to Dean's, lips hovering close enough for Dean to feel his breath against his ear. "I want to see her expression when she sees you."

That's not the answer he expected to hear. "What?"

"Lucifer announced Dean's death to all of Hell; that means she knows as well," Cas answers. "I'm certain Alicia was unbearably tempting, but surely Erica could have spared a few moments to express some form of surprise that among those bravely running away from an army of Croats was a living, panting refutation of what she knows as true."

"Fuck you, it was over _two miles_ …." Dean huffs a breath, annoyed, but he's got a point. "That's why you want to talk to her?"

"I think she has something to say that we need to hear--"

"She really doesn't."

"But whether she does or not, if she fails to get our attention this way, I'm fairly certain we don't want to see what alternate methods she might resort to." Dean scowls, but Jesus, they've gotten bit in the ass enough, and mostly by shit they didn't even actually do. "If you have a better idea...."

Yeah, that trail off is helpful. 

"You're not really considering this?" Vera demands abruptly, and it's only his iron nerves and cat-like reflexes that keep him from jumping. Much. "Why the _hell_ would you risk your lives on her word?"

"Private consultation going on here!" Dean says, but Cas steps back anyway. "Okay, Joe, Cas, explain the risks here.

"If I'm right, there's not any unless we break the terms," Joe answers as Teresa joins them. 

"He's partially correct," Cas agrees and may be the only one surprised by the fact hearing that does nothing for Vera at all except up the incredulity to critical. "There is always the risk that we make or accept bad terms, however."

"Which is why I'm doing it," Joe says, and no, not helping.

"But okay, we're missing something here," Dean says, wondering if he's the only one who noticed this. "She said the Host had to confirm it. The Host isn't here."

Joe and Cas exchange a weird look before Joe says, "Yeah, and yet, she accepted me as their representative."

"But...." Dean honestly doesn't know what to say to that. "They aren't here to tell you that you can."

"Cas said I could."

"I did," Cas agrees, like that's supposed to reassure them all.

"She's going to kill all of you!" Vera exclaims, and almost immediately shuts her eyes with a pained expression while Cas straightens like someone just shoved a broom up his ass. "Oh God, start over--"

"You think," Cas says in the precise tones of imminent homicide, "that a demon barely off the rack who, despite my repeated attempts at correction, never did quite manage to remember to protect her left and believed the best defense was to pretend she didn't need one--"

"Here we go," Amanda mutters, rubbing her forehead. "Jesus, Vera."

"--would be dangerous to me or anyone with me?" Cas continues, voice rising. "Two days ago, I killed a Hellhound in single combat and a number of Croats. If that isn't enough--"

"I'm so sorry," Vera murmurs to Amanda, who looks like she's getting a migraine.

"--less than seven years ago, I fought in a forty year siege in Hell. I won't elucidate, for modesty demands I don't go into detail regarding my accomplishments during my time there, but suffice to say they were well above 'adequate'."

"He won," Dean admits during the pause Cas gives him to do just that and hopes no one asks for details. "The whole siege thing, technically. Killed lots of demons, it was pretty epic."

"Mortality has required some adjustments, yes--" Cas continues.

"Sorry," Vera says sincerely. "You have no idea how much."

"--but despite that, I've managed to survive this long, so I must be doing something right," Cas finishes with vicious satisfaction. "Anyone else wish to express doubts on my competence?"

No one does: what a surprise. "You think that she won't try to get around the terms, whatever they are?" Dean asks before Cas decides a history of his personal bloodshed may now be required; that could take forever (actually, literally forever).

"She's a demon, and for that matter _Erica_ ; treachery is to be expected. However, for one, she'll be limited by the terms, and two...."

"She really wants to talk," Dean finishes glumly. "At least, you think so."

He meets Cas's eyes and remembers what he promised about listening, even if he didn't agree. That doesn't mean he has to change his mind when he listens to why he should, but it implies he'll be honest with them both on whether his reasons not to are better. Jerking his head toward Joe, he ignores Vera's incredulous expression. "Joe?"

"We can do this," Joe answers confidently.

"You don't," Vera argues, "even know all the terms! Or made any, for that matter!"

"Here's what I know," Joe says, with an inflection that really makes Dean wonder what he's thinking. "She's Crossroads, which means when it comes to contract, everything she says counts, and they can do everything and anything but lie. What she agrees to, Crossroads has to enforce and the Host confirms, and that includes breach, am I right?" Cas nods, blue eyes narrowing thoughtfully at Joe's grin. "We're good. Dean, trust me."

Like those aren't famous last words. Sure, trust him, he can do that, but it's with _Cas_. "Cas?"

"Yes," he says without hesitation. 

Okay, then. "Do it."

"What?" Vera explodes.

"Cas was right; if we refuse and she wants our attention, she'll find a way to get it, and me, I really don't want to find out. If we're gonna do this, we need a pro, and I'd bet on Joe against the Crossroads any day."

Joe smiles at him in surprised pleasure. "Thanks."

"Teresa?" he asks, because sure, they could all go over the wall and look stupid (no one is going to top Cas's performance, they'll look even stupider trying), or you know, ask her to order the gate opened.

She tilts her head, brown eyes unreadable. "I'll give the order. She shouldn't cross the ward line, though."

Well, yeah. "Got it," he answers, and she smiles oddly before starting toward the gate to give the order.

"Escorts are me, you, and Amanda," Dean tells Joe. "We got five minutes; Cas, Joe, you two talk about terms. We'll wait. And don't get us killed."

* * *

"Those are the terms acceptable to the Host," Joe finishes, watching Erica. "We await your answer; what say you?"

The terms are pretty straightforward--by that, he means Joe sounds like a lawyer who's getting paid by the word--but what Dean can't get over is how they're all talking like weird people. "'What say you'?" he mutters. "Where the hell are you getting this? Sorry, 'we' getting this?" 

Joe's left eye twitches but he keeps his gaze on Erica.

"The Host confirms," Cas agrees, which seems kind of pointless--Joe's rep for the Host, right?--but who is Dean to question? Their leader, right: that should help more than it does.

"Accepted," Erica answers. "The truce has begun; you have ten minutes to arrive or I'll consider it broken."

From the corner of his eye, Dean sees Erica do her vanishing act, but he's way too focused on the fact that Joe's smirking.

"Okay, what?" he asks, wondering if he needs to ask or just watch how this plays out. "Gonna share with the class?"

"We have ten minutes to be outside the gate and begin to talk or we're in breach of the truce," Cas says, turning to look at him. "We should probably not risk delay."

Vera's expression darkens, but she bites her lip against whatever she was going to say.

"Vera," he says, and the look she gives him says really shitty things will happen if he ever makes the mistake of getting sick again, "get Alicia. Brief her on the way; I want her up here by the time we start talking."

She hesitates, then nods shortly, giving Amanda long look before starting toward the ladder.

"Everyone ready?" He's not, but whatever. "Let's get down there."

* * *

Erica's expression when she appears at the ward line the moment the gate closes behind them is probably exactly what Cas wanted to see, and it tells Dean two things: one, she really was distracted by Alicia two days ago, and two, she knows exactly who he is. A complicated knot of emotion clouds her eyes as she looks at him, and for a moment, he almost forgets she's a demon and not a hunter looking at the doppelganger of her dead leader. A hunter who came to Chitaqua to find some way to fight Lucifer after her entire family was murdered in front of her by her boyfriend, after she spent a couple of days trapped under his body in a pool of blood while everyone she loved rotted around her.

Ten feet short of the ward line, Dean comes to a stop beside Cas, Joe and Amanda having stopped half-way between the ward line and Ichabod's walls and not subtly fanning out enough to keep him and Cas as well as Erica and anyone who might be hiding behind her somewhere in sight. Not that Erica seems to notice or care; the brown eyes flicker to oily black and back in endless succession as she stares at him, lips parting in the shape of his name before she closes her eyes.

"Erica," Cas says quietly, and the black-slicked eyes focus on Cas with something that's hatred and rage and bitter regret and none of them. 

"Cas," she says, and the intimacy of the nickname brings home who she used to be. She was Dean Winchester's trusted lieutenant and Alicia's team leader and an assassin who killed in Dean's name everyone who wouldn't sell their soul for him, but before that, she was a woman who showed up in Chitaqua and became Cas's student to learn to be a hunter. "How did you finally recognize me?"

"You were the first in your class to understand speed was only a weapon," he answers. "And like any weapon, you could learn how to counter it."

"The first thing you taught me," she says, the black receding for dark brown iris and pupil, but what looks at them isn't any more human, "is we should be willing to pay any price to win. I guess it's true; those who can't do, teach." 

"And yet, you dramatically missed the point," Cas answers. "Payment rendered is and must always be from yourself alone. You never had the right to force others to make payment for you."

"Is that what you want to talk about?" Dean asks casually. Erica's lips curl in a sneer before she makes a visible effort, expression smoothing over. "If not, get to the point."

"Micah," she answers, still looking at Cas. "He made contract like the rest of us, and he's in breach."

"He's not," Castiel answers, "or you wouldn't be here."

She cocks her head, studying Cas for a moment, eyes flickering to Dean briefly and then back to Cas. "He's the reason, isn't he?"

Dean stills, forcing himself not to look back to see how close Amanda and Joe are, and sees her slow smile. Raising a hand, she snaps her fingers.

Without thinking, he reaches for his rifle. "What--"

"Just need some privacy," she says mockingly. "I thought you might prefer it." 

"How considerate of you," Cas answers, sounding bored, but his body language, while alert, isn't 'danger' and Dean makes himself dial it down. "I would be interested in knowing the reason."

"I need answers not couched in euphemisms," she answers impatiently. "If anyone would know what's going on, it's you, and you're sober enough to make sense. For once. Consider this payment for it."

"Micah isn't in breach, because the contract didn't specify which Dean Winchester's death would fulfill the terms." Her lips tighten. "A Crossroad contract is for all intents and purposes unbreakable, but the price the Crossroads pays for writing and enforcing the terms is that any ambiguity favors the other party. That apparently holds true for the Apocalypse as well." He raises an eyebrow. "I assume asking Crowley why he didn't send anyone for Micah once the barrier was weak enough for a successful summoning didn't occur to you."

"It's not as if he knows anything," she answers contemptuously. "He's weak."

"Crowley is King of the Crossroads," Dean says mildly. Erica's eyes flicker to black again, which he guesses is her shitty attempt to pretend he's not here. "All you see is what he wants you to, and me, I'd wonder why that's what he wants you to see."

"How many of you does Crowley have right now?" Cas asks.

She smiles. "Nice try. If you don't know how many people still in Chitaqua want you dead, I'm not going to enlighten you."

"If I'd truly feared for my life, I would have killed you all two years ago," Cas says with a slow smile. "Did you ever wonder why I didn't?"

"You were--"

"Killing you would have taken moments; enjoyable, yes, but over almost before it began. Alive, I had the satisfaction of watching all of you for two long years never have a single peaceful night of sleep, never spend an hour, a minute, a single second without being reminded that I could kill all of you and Dean would believe any explanation I chose to give. Knowing every time you saw Vera, saw me, you thought all I was waiting for was one of you to give me an excuse. I wasn't; I was simply having fun."

The black-filmed eyes are filled with hate, and for a moment, Dean think he can almost see the memory of a fear that dogged every moment of her life until Kansas City and her death. 

"The only thing I regret," she says softly, "is that you survived that night and we didn't try again."

"How strange: I regret nothing at all." Cas holds her eyes, Dean feels a flash of rage coalesce, focusing on her. Through the chill rush, he belatedly realizes it's not his own at the same time he feels a knife hilt in his hand. "Except, perhaps, that it was not my hand that placed you on the rack and saw to your re-education."

"You couldn't--"

"I could," Cas says softly, and Dean hears remembered pleasure in his voice, and even better, so does she, even if she has no idea where it's coming from. "There's so much I would have liked to try."

She wets her lips. "I'd love to see you try."

"If Dean could only see you now," Cas says softly, mocking. "His loyal lieutenant: he would put a bullet in your head and cut you throat with Ruby's knife."

"He wanted to win."

"Do you think he would have ever asked that of you? That he would have wanted it?"

"He didn't need to ask," she says. "To help him, my soul was nothing. Would have been cheap at twice the price."

"And everyone else's was of worth even less," Cas replies. "All of that, and you still failed."

Dean thinks of Vera, who sat calmly in Cas's cabin that night, trusting Cas's word to keep her safe from thirty-five people on their way to kill them both; Carol, in that bed with all her guns, refusing painkillers for a leg nearly ripped apart, waiting for the team leaders she left Chitaqua to escape to finally come to kill her; the list of people who might have died or lost their souls if Cas and Vera hadn't survived that night, and every person who sold their soul with a gun to their head at the crossroads and every person they killed for refusing to say yes. And Andy on the clock, marking the seconds he had to live before either a needle or Croatoan took his life.

"How did you know who Dean was?" Cas asks her.

"I know the difference between a cheap knockoff and the genuine article." She looks at Dean briefly before returning her attention to Castiel. "I remember him. From before. Is he why you survived? To save him? Why him and not Dean?"

"Dean didn't want to be saved," he answers simply. "Neither did I. None of us who went to Kansas City meant to survive; that's why we agreed to go."

"We were all willing to do anything to help him," she says. "Not you, though; you wouldn't do shit for him. But now.…" She swallows, and the flash of the hunter she could have been is there. "Everything Dean wanted you to do, to be, and now you're doing it, all for a shitty Xerox of the real thing. You didn't deserve how Dean felt about you."

"No, I didn't," Cas tells her, the smile fading. "Nor did you. He deserved better than any of us."

Lips tight, Erica straightens. "I want Micah," she says, black-filmed eyes focusing on Cas. 

"I want to kill you," Dean tells her. "Looks like neither of us are gonna get what we want."

"Do you?" To his surprise, she turns to look at him, brown eyes studying him like fingers crawling over his skin, every touch leaving a slimy trail behind; it's an effort to keep from shuddering. "Cas is right, you know," she says abruptly. "Demon part, though, Dean wouldn't even care; going after Cas would have gotten me a bullet to the head on sight, do not pass go and talk about our feelings. I wouldn't have risked this if it was him here, but you...you're _reasonable_."

Dean tries not to flinch. "I'm not him."

"No shit," she answers, meeting his eyes. "I took the first shot at Cas's head, did you know that? And thirteen more before I stopped counting."

"Your attempt at baiting leaves much to be desired," Cas says, projecting near-death boredom. "It's not going to work."

"So you noticed, too?" Dean sucks in a breath and she smiles in satisfaction. "You're not even real, you know that, right? The life you live will always be his, and when anyone looks at you, he's who they'll always see."

"I won't," Cas says calmly over the roaring in his ears. 

"You don't need to worry I'll ever tell anyone who you really are," Erica continues, still staring at Dean. "Do you know why?"

"Because you want to win," Dean tells her; somewhere inside her is and will always be the woman trapped in that basement beneath her dead boyfriend, surrounded by dead bodies and slowly going insane. Even the rack couldn't burn out that rage and horror and grief; nothing it could do would get past those memories and touch her, not until...not until it gave her a reason to want it to. It couldn't take the memories, but it could reshape her around them; in the very bowels of the Pit, in the domain of Lucifer himself, the rack created a demon with no other purpose but to destroy him and formed to do just that. "And I'm stopping the Apocalypse so you have time."

"That's all you're good for, Xerox: existing," she agrees. "Until we don't need that anymore, though...even in Hell there are pleasures to be found, and one of them will be in knowing every hour, every minute, every second of your life here until the moment of your death, you'll live in a camp and lead a militia that can't and will never be yours. Dean recruited them, taught them, and they loved him; you, they don't even know and don't care. They're following him; all you are is what's wearing his skin. It covers you up so well they'll never see you at all. Nothing you have wasn't his first and always will be." She grins. "I'd keep your secret forever, Xerox, just for that."

The sound of a gunshot in close proximity gets him breathing as well as his full attention. Beside him, Cas coolly lowers his handgun as Erica staggers backward, clutching her belly with fingers already stained the same red of her dress. 

"Cas…." he starts, remembering what he said about the truce and Crossroads enforcing the penalty all at once, but he's interrupted by Erica's laugh as she pulls her hands away from the growing stain on her dress. 

"You just breached the truce to do _that_?"

"Five," Cas says. "Four. Three."

"I'm gonna love seeing you on the rack," she says gloatingly, taking a step toward the ward line. "When you--"

"One," Cas finishes.

"What--" Abruptly, Erica doubles over, clutching her stomach with a breathless sound that might have wanted to be a scream if she could get any air for it. Head snapping up, she stares at him, mouth working soundlessly.

"The most dangerous thing in the universe is knowledge without context," Cas says, sliding his gun back into the holster and crossing to the ward line as Erica falls to her knees, bent nearly in half. Looking down at her, he tilts his head, and for a moment, shadows like retinal burn seem to flare around Cas in echoes of great wings spread wide. "You summoned the Host of your own free will; surely you cannot quibble when we claim our rights on earth."

She glares up at him, spitting out a mouthful of blood. "You. Aren't. The Host."

"Weren't you paying attention?" Cas asks, dropping into a crouch and smiling into her eyes. "You asked for the Host to confirm; we did. You accepted it, and us; that is contract."

Looking back, Dean sees Joe watching with a faint, unmistakable smile.

"Crossroads wrote the terms, but ambiguity always favors the other party. Traditionally, the Host has the right of judgment, and we claim it now; we judge our actions did not break the truce, and no penalty shall be applied. You are not dead, nor maimed, nor is there permanent damage, though a hollow point bullet filled with holy water breaching the sciatic nerve must be very painful." Pushing to his feet, he adds over his shoulder. "We'll wait, of course. We have decided your current state is not a breach of contract."

As Cas joins him again, Dean looks at him, shaken and not sure why. "How did you know--"

"Joseph was correct; he's a far better negotiator than I am," Cas murmurs, and Dean watches incredulously as they exchange a smile. "Joseph asked me to name him representative and I agreed; when he told Erica the Host appointed him, she didn't argue the point. The Host, of course, could dispute my right to claim membership, but as you might be aware, they aren't here."

"So she basically agreed you were the Host and Crossroads believed her." Dean takes in his expression. "You didn't mention that during the explanation up there."

"I didn't know," Cas explains. "At least, not for certain." 

"You risked breaking contract--"

"Of course not," he interrupts, making a face. "Joseph knew, and I trusted his judgment. I was following your recommendation to trust humanity; you were right. Again. Well done."

Dean looks at Erica, who's slowly getting to her feet, face ashen, then at Cas. "We'll talk about this later."

She walks up to the ward line, so close he can see sparks forming, tiny swarms of fireflies glowing around her feet. Then abruptly, she focuses on Dean. "I could be wrong about you."

"Erica," Cas says, "if there's nothing else--"

"There is," she interrupts, never looking away from Dean. "I could be wrong about you, so let's find out." She tilts her chin toward Joe and Amanda and snaps her fingers. "Time for them to join the party."

Dean swallows in a dry throat before saying, "Joe, Amanda. Looks like Erica's finally ready to get to the point."

She waits until they join them; a glance shows Joe, standing on the other side of Cas, is keeping his expression neutral, but Amanda's next to Dean, and she can't quite, tension so strong he's getting a stress high.

"How's your eye?" Amanda asks brightly, and Dean sees Cas's smile spread across her face. "Wanna try for a matched set?"

"Micah made contract with the Crossroads of his own free will," Erica says, eyes skimming over Amanda too quickly to be as casual as she obviously wants to be. Two decades on the rack and a demon to boot, but she died still afraid of Amanda, like she was of Cas, and that will never change now. "I'm here to claim him."

"Dean's not dead," Amanda says, and Dean sees her cocking her head curiously. "Micah's golden until--what, ten years or Dean's death?"

"That's not what she's talking about, though," Joe says slowly, shifting his gun, and Erica's eyes fix on him in surprise. "This isn't official action, that we know, but you went after Micah the first chance you got. This is personal."

"You have no idea what you're talking about...." She trails off, and Dean follows her frozen gaze to see a figure standing on the wall just above the gate. As if she were watching for just that, Alicia leans forward, bracing one hand on the battlement, and even from here, Dean can see the glint of metal between her thumb and first finger of her right hand. He doesn't think anyone can make a plus one hundred foot throw--much less have any accuracy doing it--but on the other hand, he wouldn't want to test that if he was the one Alicia was looking at.

Everything Erica's said, and finally, Dean remembers that demons can lie with the absolute truth. This is personal.

"I forgot," Cas says into the near-perfect silence. "Alicia sends her regards."

Erica jerks her gaze back to them. "Everyone who made contract first swore obedience to the team leaders through me. His life belongs to us; I'm claiming it here and now."

Joe shifts his rifle against his shoulder again. "Why here and now, though? That's what I'm wondering."

The brush behind her begins to shift, dappled light flashing on jeans and blurred ovals of faces vanishing too quickly to count or even tell apart, but every pair of eyes is the slicked in black. He feels Cas still, Amanda's soft curse, something Joe says that may be Yiddish but he can guess the meaning without needing a translation, but even without them, he knows who they are.

"Six, seven, eight," Amanda counts out loud, and there's no mistaking Erica's startlement or the pulse of hatred in Amanda's voice. "Cross the ward line, I fucking dare you."

For a moment, Dean thinks Erica just might.

"And if we don't give him to you?" Dean asks quickly, before Joe turns creepy, too, and he has an entire matched set of crazy people taunting demons at the ward line. "It's not like you can get inside Ichabod to get him if we say no."

"That's true," she answers, and Dean sees Joe go still. "In which case, we'll leave at dawn without him."

"Dawn?" Joe asks unexpectedly, throwing Dean a look that practically screams 'shut up', but it's not like he doesn't get the significance; that's when the Misborn will be able to cross the barrier.

"I have some time." Joe's expression goes blank as she looks at Dean again, smile back in place like it never left. "I already know what you aren't," she says softly. "It'll be interesting to find out, however, exactly what you are. See you soon." After a calculated pause, she adds, "Please give Stephanie my love as well."

Taking a step back, she and the other figures melt into the darkness, and the quiet around them tells him that wherever they are now, it's not here. 

Turning on Joe and Cas, Dean glares at them. "What--"

"Not here," Joe interrupts, looking at Cas, who nods with an expression Dean can't read. "Dean, just trust me; let's go. Now."

Dean nods, staring back toward the gate. "Amanda, go to Admin and tell Alison we want Micah _now_. Joe, grab Vera and Alicia and meet us at HQ."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I do this:
> 
> 1.) The term [proscription](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Proscription) being used here is actually from later in the Republic; it wasn't established until about fifty years later. In a lot of ways, it was made for bureaucratic convenience; to make it easier to take a man's property, strip him of his citizenship (this includes his family), make it illegal for him (or his heirs) to stand for office, make him religiously anathema, and put a price on his head. What was done to the Gracchi and their followers was almost the same thing, but done in a series of very legalesque actions instead of a single one and hit a ridic number of laws, some that historians are still sorting out. I am not a historian; I used it for sheer convenience since it did almost exactly the same thing just in a single word.
> 
> 2.) Being declared nefas is not the same as being tried for (and convicted of)sacrilege, and the consequences could be nothing at all or everything, depending on the Senate and what your enemies wanted to have happen. However, when they take your head, you have no coin for Charon and therefore doomed to be a mad shade wandering forever; in that case, the Pontifex Maximus can draw up the correct contracts with the gods and pay the fare for you (sometimes a sacrifice was involved, sometimes not, who can tell, because Rome). Rule of thumb: he can refuse and you're fucked, no way around it. It could be more complicated that that--this involves the state religion--but the position of the Pontifex Maximus was ancient and above everything. A man can be proscribed--ie, lose his citizenship, his lands, his everything, go into exile--but the Senate had no way to strip him of his title, his income from that, or his home (the Domus Publica); they kind of had to kill him to be religiously okay. Because Rome.
> 
> 3.) Mental illness was perfectly well known to Rome and a lot of the ancient world; explanation 'because gods and humours' was there, but it was also treated as a medical condition as well as a spiritual one, and often those were one in the same. It was called different things depending on place and time and symptoms--for convenience, I used melancholia here for major depression--but ancient medical professionals did diagnose and treat depression, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, psychosis, postpartum depression, dementia, phobias, alcoholism, PTSD, etc and had a range of treatments from 'reasonable' to 'holy fuck are you kidding'. Kind of like today, really. I went through a few texts I could find to get some background (not much, but I had to read at my level, which is 'totally not a scholar, can't read Latin, wait, that's English are you fucking with me?'), but treatment for Claudia would have included a very strict, very nutritiously balanced especially by our standards diet (diet was a huge thing as cure for anything) and likely would have included proven herbal remedies, up to and including monitored use of psychedelics and euphorics if other treatments failed (tripping balls for mental health, who knew?), and talk therapy. Also, they would have probably made her eat sheep's liver: I'm unclear on if it was the iron content or mystical properties (or both), but sheep's liver was weirdly popular as cure. For my sanity, I assume it was cooked first.
> 
> 4.) The views on spousal abuse here are not modern reworkings; one of the things that comes out when we have fewer white men interpreting history for the parts they like is realizing no, white men are not the center of all things and people were fine with this up until fifty years ago or pick a number because nature. Also what is often discounted as unimportant are social controls as well as legal controls; there were a lot of them for women. The quote I used is a reworking of several used in the ancient and even medieval world depending on the society: another version is that you don't trust a man who beats his dog, his horse, or his wife, and another involves servants, another involves torturing animals. It wasn't a perfect system, and I for one prefer having legal and social standing as a person in my own right as codified by law, custom, and society, but there was never any time in history that women weren't fighting legally and socially and weren't pushing back against male domination and doing it with the support and encouragement of men in their society as well, both openly and surreptitiously.
> 
> 5.) Fixed Jolene to Joelle - seriously, wtf Word spellcheck?


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As some of you know, I broke a tooth a few weeks ago and am now engaged in waiting for the second of a three part Dental Drama series (the first was on Wednesday, terrible reviews, do not recommend this show, the sound effects were unsettling) to finish that and assure those around it don't decide this is a good time to abandon ship. However, I am told I come out of this able to eat normally and with a real lack of pain, so there's that. Just two more of these to go while I heal between them and wonder why on earth teeth do this.
> 
> Please see warnings at the end if you have any triggers regarding kids.

_\--Day 157, continued--_

After a quick stop in the mess for two cups of coffee, Dean leaves word with Jeremy in case they're a little late and sends Joelle to find Kamal and tell him to meet them in the Situation Room before he and Cas go to the infirmary. At his nod, Cas goes to the third floor to check on Sudha and brief James's team while Dean finds Dolores between emergencies and holds out one of the cups with a smile. Her expression tells him that yeah, infirmary coffee really is that bad.

"You're good," she says, taking it gratefully and nodding him back to the small break room after checking on Karl. From the look of both of them, they've been on their feet since dawn. "I'll ask now; any chance I can get Vera and Alicia this afternoon? Forever would be great, but I'll take anything."

"I'm not sure about Alicia," he prevaricates. "Vera, yeah: I know she wants to be here for one of the woman delivering anyway. Everything okay?" He would have heard about another catalyst event by now, but it looked really busy out there.

"Just everything that can go wrong with a lot of people in not enough space," she answers, closing the door before dropping into the nearest chair. "And something new. Waste management is working overtime trying to get the rest of the pumps up, and it's not like we knew what we were doing when we brought it up a couple of years ago." She sighs, taking a long drink. "So to avoid breaking it altogether while we figure out what to do, we're going medieval on everything north of Fifth--chamberpots and latrines for everyone. There was an accident trying to build a shelter over the latrines near the new building on Seventh. Nothing too serious--worst was a broken arm--but...."

They're at latrines now. "I bet that didn't go over well."

"Alison made the announcement at all the shelters," Dolores answers tiredly, rubbing her forehead. "Said it could have been worse: no one stoned her, but she figured that was because all the rocks are covered in snow. Hopefully, it'll be a temporary measure: one good thing, we got several volunteers from the refugees who had some experience with sanitation and jumped when they heard about it. Pretty sure Tony was crying when he hugged them."

Despite himself, he grins. 

"Next up: everything that goes wrong with a lot of people, not enough space, and challenges in sanitary conditions. Just know now, we're going to try and bribe Vera to leave Chitaqua and come here," Dolores says wryly. "Karl and I are making up a benefit package, may include worship and offerings of anything she wants, and I do mean anything."

Considering his talk with Vera earlier, that's kind of concerning. "I'll try thinking up a counteroffer."

"For the record...." she starts in a different voice, and he knows where this is going.

"Not your fault." He scowls at her as he grabs a second chair and sits down. "It was one of ours who started it."

Dolores checks her drink, looking at him dubiously. "Dean--"

"Kyle found out about it," he says. "I got confirmation from Alicia that she told him, and considering it was in our mess this morning, Kat is Chitaqua source. Carol was for here, I'm guessing."

Dolores's lips tighten. "She didn't deny it, no. Even if Kyle was source, mine knew better than to listen, much less spread the word. I apologize, Dean, and tell Alicia everyone involved will be doing the same to her personally." She pauses to take another drink like she's bracing herself. "Which is the second reason I'd like her here, at least for a couple of hours. I don't want this to go an inch further; everyone sees her here working with patients just like always, that will do half the work."

"Will she be okay?" he asks bluntly. "I mean, not a knife in her gut here, but...."

"Yes," she answers. "Karl can make a public request for her help; she's further along in surgical technique than anyone other than Vera, and I think he'd genuinely like her here to take over a case later this afternoon. I think he also wants to hug her, so two birds, one stone. All regular staff think the same, if you're worried about that; she won't get shit from anyone about it." She clutches her cup, dark eyes bleak. "It's for us, too; isolation is privileged, and we...both sides have to know it's something we have to do and once done, it's over. I can't let this become...it's already impossible, what we have to do. The secrecy just makes it a little easier for everyone to live with."

Christ, it just keeps getting worse. "Send word to HQ officially; I'll talk to her. I can't promise anything, though."

"If she can't, tell her I don't blame her, and no one else does, either. She didn't deserve this." Making an effort, Dolores smiles at him. "I thought you'd be more pissed, honestly."

"Our guy--and our former woman," he reminds her. "Speaking of, how's Carol?"

Her expression darkens, and Dean feels for her; she's head of the hospital, Carol's her patient and under her care, and how you feel personally can't affect how you do your job. That doesn't make it fun, though. "My examination this morning confirms; gangrene's spreading fast, and there's no going back."

"How long...."

"We can--maybe, no promises--still remove the leg, good chance nothing has spread farther or it's not critical yet, but now surviving the surgery itself is up in the air. She's not in good shape anyway, and every hour drops her chances; I'd give it twelve hours before we're past the point of no return. This isn't a real ER, Dean, and no one but Vera's ever even been in a real OR; we'd be doing something none of us have ever even _seen_ done before, and it was risky before." 

Dean tries to steel himself against sympathy, but Jesus Christ, that's a shitty way to die. "And after the twelve hours?"

"Three days to a week," she answers. "I'm guessing from statistics here. I have her on broad spectrum antibiotics now, but that only slows the progress at best, and that's not gonna help much longer. Tonight, I'll need to find out what her wishes are for what happens next and how long she wants to wait. She can do the administration herself if she wants, or I can do it at a pre-appointed time; it'll be up to her."

Croat's not the only thing where cutting it short is the kindest method. A needle or a gun: there's not that much of a difference . Reaching out, he takes her free hand and squeezes it. "I'm sorry."

She smiles faintly, mouth trembling. "No one likes to lose a patient, and like this.... Karl and I have a standard talk for it now; I can almost do it in my sleep. Haven't had to use it too often, but once...once is too much." He nods, watching as she straightens her shoulders from the tired slouch: a professional in every sense of the word. "So, anything else I can help you with?"

Dean debates only a moment; it's not his business, but fuck his life, it just might be. "Cathy been volunteering in the infirmary?"

"Yes," she answers in surprise. "Lewis and Alicia convinced her to take a few shifts, get her out of her building and around people, do her some good. I wasn't sure about her being with Sudha last night, but it turns out...." She searches his face. "Dean?"

"She canceled on Alicia this morning." He takes a drink of his coffee. "She ever assigned to Carol?"

"Not specifically," she answers, eyes distant. "Mostly pre-LVN work like I'd give someone still in school, assist the nurses, do checks on the patients in case they need anything... _dammit_." Her jaw tightens. "She was escort for Carol coming back last night, forgot about that; said Carol wasn't that bad, just needed someone to listen."

"Seriously?" he blurts out and winces. "Sorry, I--long morning. Something."

She waves a hand. "That explains how it got around so fast here but didn't get to the YMCA--Lewis already slammed through his staff, couldn’t find anything." She bites her lip. "Dean, look, if there'd been anyone else that day, I wouldn't have let one of yours--"

"Alicia volunteered because that's her job," he interrupts. "Helping is what we do." He hesitates then barrels ahead, because why the fuck not? "Look, since we can talk about it now--what happened?"

"We gave them a sedative when they were brought in," she says quietly. "Just to keep them calm, so their parents--that part went right." Her hands close around the cup tightly. "Fifth hour--we estimated--I went to talk to the parents, and--they wanted to wait it out. Technically, I can override when it's Croat, but I haven't yet. I don't know if it's better or worse for them, only they can decide that. So another sedative to keep them calm, I ordered them restrained, and told them about two hours."

Gently, he pries the cup from her other hand and squeezes them both, trying to warm the cold fingers.

"We underestimated by about an hour," she continues. "It happens, but my volunteer got an extra hour to get spooked. We've had kids infected, but never under six, and all of them were under three. They went up there and saw four perfectly healthy, drowsy toddlers and walked right back out. Worse, I was in surgery on Talia's shoulder; I didn't even know until Karl came to tell me. Two and a half hours past manifestation, they were crying for their parents--fuck, I hate Croat--and two of their parents were trying to get in the room."

He squeezes her hands again as they start to tremble.

"I wasn't at my best," she whispers, an echo of grief in her voice, and he thinks of Grant in the mortuary; by then, she may have even seen what was left of his body. "I called for help, Teresa brought a team up, it was a mess. I locked down that part of the wing, went down to the drug closet and got everything myself." She looks up. "And then Alicia appeared, like magic. Karl said I was sitting there about an hour, that was--I didn't realize it had been that long. She asked what we needed, and I--I told her." She wets her lips. "She asked what we were using, how much, checked the bottles, asked me where she could suit up, and said she'd check in when she was done. About an hour later, she was in my office, filling in time of death."

"How was she?"

"Quiet, but nothing that set off any flags," she answers. "First rule of isolation: don't fuck around, and she didn't. Got in, got it done, got out. Karl--who's not an idiot and knows the second rule of isolation is you don't talk about isolation no matter what you suspect--kept an eye on her and took her home with him that night, just in case. Said she seemed fine." She squeezes his hands one more time before letting go, and Dean pretends he can still feel his fingers (the ones without nerve damage, anyway). "Dean, I wouldn't have let her do it, I swear, but she said it was fine, she'd done it before."

Dean checks his nod; she's done it before. "That's our Alicia," he agrees, relieved he sounds normal. "No point arguing; she'll just keep talking until you give in, so might as well save yourself some time."

"Yeah." She takes a deep breath. "If it helps, tell Alicia that if she comes here, she'll see nothing but friends, okay?" 

"I will. And you tell them it wasn't any of you," he says, knowing what she won't say; _she's_ under suspicion as well for the leak as the only one who should know who did isolation duty. "Tell them I confirmed it was our leak." Dolores makes a face. "Don’t make me do the gossip thing; I'll put Joe and Amanda on it, but you shouldn't get shit for what wasn't your fault."

She nods reluctantly. "Names or not?"

"Use their names, and ours: our fuck-up, we're not hiding it. This wasn't anyone at Ichabod." Now for the part he's almost looking forward to now. "Look, I know she's not in great shape, but--"

"You want to talk to Carol." He nods, and she sits back, eyes sharp. "Level with me: this the only thing?"

"No." He debates what to tell her and how much, then goes with the truth. "We just chatted with the demon responsible for the Croat attack two days ago, and we're pretty sure Micah's involved, somehow. Carol may know something about what's going on, and we need to find out. Just talk," he clarifies. "But it's gotta be private. You can check in, but...."

"You need to be alone." She meets his eyes. "How long?"

"Fifteen minutes or less," he answers. "We're on a time limit."

She thinks for a moment, then nods slowly. "Fifteen minutes," she confirms. "She's awake now, next examination isn't for another hour. I'll take you myself."

He gets to his feet. "Thanks."

* * *

Opening the door, Dean sees two sets of eyes fly toward him. Cathy flushes bright red, gaze dropping to the bed; Carol doesn't react at all.

"Need a minute," he says flatly, jerking his head toward the door. Cathy jumps to her feet, flushing harder as she picks up the stack of clean sheets, and not meeting his eyes as she scurries by him and into the hall where her footsteps come to a halt, probably on seeing Dolores. 

"We should talk," he hears Dolores say. "Wait here, would you? I'll be just a second."

Carol looks like shit; the harsh overhead lights throw the strain on her face into prominent relief, skin stretched tight, lips thin and bloodless, and he finds himself avoiding looking directly at her leg even if it's under the blankets. The sound of the monitors is almost painfully loud, and inevitably, he finds himself staring at the IV bag that's doing its damndest to save her from herself. Her expression darkens, eyes going to the doorway where Dolores is standing.

"I don't want--" she starts unevenly, but Dolores simply steps back and closes the door. Closing her eyes, she bites her lip before opening them and focusing on Dean. "If you're here about--"

"Erica's here." What little color Carol has drains away, leaving her a sickly yellow. "For Micah, in case that wasn't obvious. But you knew about that, what am I saying?"

The thin, trembling fingers tighten in the blanket. "And Micah?"

Of course that's what she cares about. "We're moving him to our headquarters."

"Thank God," she whispers, relaxing against the pillows. "So he's okay?"

"Oh yeah," he agrees, crossing his arms. "His buddies are still missing, but they'll turn up, I guess."

She bites her lip. "Can I--"

"If you're next words are 'see him', then you gotta be fucking with me."

Her cheeks splotch with dull color. "Dean, I'm dying--"

"And you're not fucking up anyone else's life on your way out." Carol flinches. "You can send him a letter through Dolores, though; someone will see he gets it, how's that?"

Wetting her lips, her mouth trembles on the next words. "That's not fair."

"I don't care." She opens her mouth again, but Dean keeps going. "Erica brought some old friends of ours--it's like the most fucked-up reunion in history--and for some reason, I don't think she's going to go away quietly at dawn when we refuse to hand him over. What's going on?"

Carol frowns, almost convincingly. "I don't understand."

"I think you do." Her frown deepens. "Micah's buddies: where are they, what are they doing, and why?"

"I don't know," she answers. "They aren't under contract--at least, Micah said they weren't--so maybe they're just not interested in being Chitaqua's special guests. You don't have a good reputation these days, or so I heard." Her mouth twists into a parody of a smile. "Sow what you reap, Dean. You're killers, all of you; now everyone's getting with the program."

"So you're saying, Micah didn't tell you anything about what he's planning?" Dean asks evenly, waiting for Carol's impatient nod. "Sorry to waste your time; it's not like you got much of it left."

Her smile freezes.

"Okay, I told Dolores under fifteen minutes, so--"

"Dean, wait." He pauses with his hand on the doorknob as she pushes herself upright, blanching when it moves her leg, wondering what's wrong with him that he just lets her. "I want to see Micah."

He takes a moment to wonder what Carol's world is like, where you call people killers before asking for favors and don't see the problem. He should do something about that. "No."

"You're being petty," she says accusingly. "Whatever bullshit Alicia told you about Micah, it's a lie. She--"

"I get it, your crusade against Alicia is your thing, because that's what's important here. Tell me, though, what did those kids do to you?"

She looks confused. "What kids?"

"The Croat kids." He lets go of the doorknob. "Hell, what did their _parents_ do to you?"

"I don't know what you--"

"Three weeks ago," he says, "this town was attacked--wait, you know all about it. How many residents died, Carol?"

She licks her lips. "I don't--"

"Forty-nine adults and fourteen kids. How many were infected?" She glares at him, mouth tight. "Thirteen adults, four kids. Know the official cause of death? Bet you don't, but I do; it's the same as those killed during the fighting: died of injuries sustained during the attack. Because that's what happened; you don't survive Croat, no matter how long you may live after. Four kids didn't survive, but they still had to keep living, all the way past threshold. Their families, their friends, _this town_ , had to watch them become monsters."

She licks her lips. "Dean--"

"But you--Jesus Christ. You don't get it. It could have been anyone, and until today, it _was_ anyone; they didn't want to know more, didn't need to. Now, they have to deal with their kids being dead and knowing for absolute fact what person had to do the shittiest fucking job in this goddamn world. How is that better?" She looks startled, like somehow, it didn't occur to her. "But hey, you got to score a few points off Alicia with dead kids: win, win, am I right?"

"That's not what...." She stops, probably because she can't work out how to explain she didn't think about it, wouldn't have given a fuck if she did and doesn't now, but does realize hey, that does seem kind of shitty. "You don't think they deserved to know?"

"Who the _fuck_ are you to decide that?" Carol leans back against the pillows, eyes wide. "Ichabod's gotten along for two years without you to guide them, so I don't think you--or I--have any fucking right to even ask that question. This town decided how to deal with this, as a community; you deciding on your own that they're doing it wrong...that would be shitty on its own, but you didn't even do it for a fucked-up principle and don't pretend you did. You did it just to fuck with Alicia."

"She killed _kids_!" Carol says hotly, the splotches of color darkening. "Whatever reason, they were _kids_ , and she walked in there like it was nothing and shot them up. Dean, ask yourself, what kind of person could do that?"

"The kind of person who knows the job's gotta be done," he answers. "Better question: who the fuck decides their feelings are more important than doing their job? The same kind of person who thinks their feelings are more important than a town's peace. Petty, Carol: you have no idea, so how about I show you how it's done. No, you won't see Micah. I won't let you anywhere near HQ, I won't authorize him being brought here, and all contact will be done by the old fashioned write it on a piece of paper; ask Dolores for some, I bet she'd love to help you out after the truly shitty morning she's had already. Anything you write--or he does, which is unlikely, but anything's possible--will be read by Dolores, me, Cas, Micah's wife, and whoever else I think needs to see it, and I may read that shit out loud in the middle of the town if I feel like it and spoiler: I feel like it. Take notes, Carol; _that's_ how you do petty and mean it." She swallows. "And I can do it without fucking up grieving people's lives."

Her hands clench in the sheets. "You're an asshole, you know that?"

"Have my way, you'll never see him alive again," he says, glancing deliberately at her leg before grinning at her. "Looks like I'll get my wish. You're not dying, Carol, you're dead; all you're doing is marking time. Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out."

She flinches, hand going to her thigh before jerking it back, fingers closing into a fist. Then (because of course that's what she cares about), "Micah's _wife_?"

Still grinning, he opens the door and goes out into the hall, not surprised to see Dolores several feet down, talking to one of her other volunteers. Catching her eye, he nods and starts to the third floor to get Cas.

* * *

Dean hovers at the doorway, carefully out of line of sight, but he doubts being seen will be a problem. Cas, sitting on the edge of Sudha's bed, is utterly focused on the bundle of plump baby in his arms, dressed in a tiny yellow and green embroidered shirt and soft cloth diaper. 

"Very beautiful," he says in a hushed voice, and Dean takes in Sudha's bright smile as she watches, sitting up against the pillows and looking comfortable in scrub bottoms and a long, embroidered tunic laced up the front, blankets pushed back in the warmth of the room. Catching a tiny fist, Cas watches in fascination as the little fingers fail to wrap around his thumb. "They're so small, yet each without flaw," he observes in wonder, and Dean realizes this may be the first time Cas has ever seen a newborn (well, last night, but Jaya wasn't at her best at first sight). "She's utterly perfect."

"She is," Sudha answers, reaching to adjust the edge of her daughter's shirt. "Don't worry: she only seems fragile." Her head turns too quickly for Dean to move, and catching his eye, she jerks her head for him to come in. Jaya makes a bubbly baby sound--no idea what that means--and Sudha laughs. "I think she likes you."

As quietly as he can, Dean comes up behind them, looking over Cas's shoulder at the tiny face, big brown eyes regarding the world thoughtfully. Cas touches her cheek with one finger, almost tentative, and the dark eyes focus on him briefly; maybe he's imagining it, but he could swear she recognizes Cas. 

"Hey," he says softly, just short of secret creepy-watching territory. Resting a hand on Cas's shoulder, he relaxes as Cas leans back against him; the clinging feeling of having crawled out of something slimy that's lingered since he left Carol's room recedes. "Hey, Jaya," he murmurs, reaching down to touch her head--a lot of hair for a newborn, sleekly black and curling at the ends. The pursed lips move busily. "She's gonna break some hearts, Sudha."

"All of them," Sudha agrees as Cas looks up in utter amazement, and Dean grins, dropping a kiss against his temple. 

"How're you doing?" he asks Sudha; Cas didn't know how much she'd choose to remember, so neutral is the way to go.

"Great," she answers cheerfully, almost glowing; so that's definitely a thing. "Vera recommended Jaya and I remain here for a few days just in case, but forty days seclusion can start here just as easily as at home." Her grin turns mischievous. "I made her repeat it several times, tell her I apologize, but her _accent_...."

"She went to college in Texas and spent a great deal of time there as a child," Cas explains, watching in awe as Jaya's tiny mouth opens on a yawn. "The slight drawl is inevitable; it seems you have only to step in the state for it to attach itself like some sort of linguistic barnacle and is difficult to eradicate. We're fortunate she didn't spend time in the eastern portion of the state or a twang would also make an appearance. Listening to native speakers will assist her to keep a native accent. If possible, don't speak English to her; it seems to be coded to the speaker and not entirely under her control. More practice should help with that as well."

"Every chance I get," Sudha promises happily, adding something in Hindi that makes Cas grin at her, and his reply setting off a fit of giggles; so Sudha's in a _really_ good mood. Reluctantly, Dean awards points to the goddess whose name he can't speak (or even think, God that's weird); she really is different with her worshippers.

At Jaya's vaguely querulous sound, Cas reluctantly passes her back to Sudha. "Thank you," he tells her. "I don't know how you have decided to structure your seclusion, but I would like to visit again at the first opportunity, with your permission."

"Family is always welcome," she says softly, tucking Jaya against her chest before meeting Cas's eyes for a long moment. "Uncle, yes? At least, from a certain point of view."

Cas stills, and Dean squeezes his shoulder reassuringly.

"Only if you wish--" Sudha begins as the silence stretches.

"Of course I do!" Cas bursts out, and Dean bites back a smile; he doesn't need to see Cas's face to know he just closed his eyes in sheer horror, and Sudha relaxes, starting to smile. "I mean," he starts again, "yes, of course I do." Touching Jaya's cheek, Cas starts to rise, then pauses, leaning over and kissing Sudha's forehead. "That does include mandatory babysitting duties, I understand?"

"Oh yes," she agrees, eyes shimmering and reaching with her free arm, tugs Cas into a hug. Cas hesitates, then leans closer. "It includes many things. When she's sick and needs entertainment and when she's teething and when she wants to complain about her parents and especially when I'm very tired of her whining and consider throwing her out the window and wondering why on earth I ever wanted children."

"All of that and more. Thank you," Cas whispers, and Dean's chest tightens. "Promise me you'll stay here until the barrier rises. James' team will be assigned here to watch over all of you."

"If I must fight, I will," she answers softly. "But Jaya will be safe with Rabin and our family here, I promise."

Cas hesitates, then nods. "We'll try very hard to make sure you're not needed," he answers, straightening reluctantly. "I'll visit again soon."

Dean nods to Sudha and quickly averts his eyes when he realizes why Jaya is making those impatient sounds (that would be the reason for the lacing on the tunic), following Cas out of the room. 

"James," he says as Neeraja appears at the end of the hall, looking surprised to see them. Waving at her, he turns his attention back to James. "Your team's assigned to the infirmary; do whatever Dolores needs, but one of you stay with Sudha at all times, okay?"

James looks relieved. "Got it."

"How's Nate?" he asks belatedly; before last night, he hasn't seen much of him.

"Fine," James answers automatically, then sighs. "He's fronting with us, but not like you can't read the guy like a book." Dean exchanges a look with Cas; James reads Natese now. Okay then. "We're sticking with him, keeping him busy. He and Mira are working on one of the other rooms; Dolores says getting more space is priority right now."

"And Zack?"

James make a face. "Almost broke his finger with a hammer twice. He's doing orderly duty; we'll let him paint. Maybe."

"Good man." Squeezing his shoulder, Dean sees Neeraja hovering nearby. "Everything okay?"

"Just visiting Sudha," she says with a smile. "Could you ask Dolores to give us some privacy for a few hours? She needs to rest, but she very much also wishes to show off the baby to anyone within ten feet."

"Don't blame her." He looks at James. "Do me a favor--"

"And tell visitors to go away?" He nods brightly. "Can do that. Except Rabin, of course. I'll tell Dolores myself."

Neeraja smiles in relief. "Thank you." 

As she goes inside the room, Dean gives James an encouraging smile before following Cas to the stairs. It's an effort, but he manages to wait until they're outside before asking, "So how much does Sudha remember?"

"Not Jaya's former identity, of course," he answers. "I assumed that much, but she retained everything else. A relief, in all honesty."

Not hard to figure out why Cas likes that part and not just because it would make conversation really awkward when it comes to 'what not to say about the goddess in your room' thing. "Uncle Cas," he says out loud, and Cas ducks his head on a smile; yeah, should have guessed that, because Gabriel, _of fucking course Gabriel_. At least he can still think his name. "I like it. That part of the personal stuff you mentioned?"

"I didn't realize she'd told Sudha the whole as well," he answers, looking at Dean worriedly. "I was going to tell you, but...." He wanted to think about it, Dean deduces from the trail off; if Sudha didn't know it, or acknowledge it, he couldn't either. And until--oh, five minutes ago--he probably didn't even realize how much he wanted her to.

"You're going to be a great uncle," Dean tells him, already trying to work out what they should get Sudha and Jaya: he'll ask around, see what they need. A lot of things with fire retardants when Jaya hits puberty, if she gets that back (they should find a copy of _Firestarter_ , get some research in). At least he won't have to threaten her future boyfriends and girlfriends too much and hey, it'll be easy to see which ones need to have a long talk about appropriate behavior, being singed and all. While Cas stares them into a healthy puddle of pure terror: this is gonna be great.

Cas glances back at the infirmary with a faint smile before turning his attention back to Dean. "The sooner she makes her offering, the better. I'd far prefer her to have the protection of the earth; once it accepts her, it might mask her somewhat should Lucifer happen to discover her."

"I'd like it if Teresa wasn't doing whatever the hell she's doing that's making her look like she did on the wall earlier," Dean answers, and Cas's lips tighten. "Want to fill me in?"

"She's not in danger, if that's what you're worried about."

"Cas--"

"She's draining herself into the wards to strengthen them," Cas interrupts. "Which is another perk of having the wards permanently inscribed onto the walls; she can store power there. It's perfectly safe, and while somewhat tiring for her, it's far preferable than waiting until we're attacked to have the wards draw directly from her."

"That's not the part I'm worried about."

"Manuel, Alison, and Neeraja are all aware of what she's doing. Wendy as well: they're assuring she doesn't risk herself. The earth tends to discourage self-sacrifice in general and among its priestesses in specific, especially before there's a pressing need for it."

Dean closes his lips over his opinion of the earth's ability to persuade Teresa; she's a hunter, and as a group, 'self-sacrifice' isn't something they avoid if they can help it. The risk to Alison may be the only thing keeping Teresa from doing something insanely stupid.

With an effort, he puts that aside for some time not now. "I talked to Carol."

Cas's expression doesn't change, but it isn't the weather that's creating that kind of chill right now. "What did she say?"

"She says doesn't know anything," he answers as they make the turn for Second. 

"Do you believe her?"

It's a genuine inquiry. "No, but whatever she knows, it's only what Micah told her, and I doubt he told her much." Carol parroting Micah's party line on Alicia like gospel doesn't give him a lot of confidence in her judgment, and Micah is an asshole but couldn't have been stupid enough to tell her more than he had to. "Infirmary could use some more orderlies, though, maybe watch for visitors; we got anyone?"

"Haruhi and Rosario," he answers after a moment of thought. "They're both from Ichabod, and it wouldn't be particularly of note for them to be there. Assuming she's aware we're recruiting, even if she saw them at Headquarters, I doubt she'd remember them."

Living with the recruits the last few days, he can already see the echoes of Amanda (Cas) forming in them from their training, the way they move, react: a half-step off Chitaqua's hunters, but they're getting there. Just as importantly, he's seen how his militia acts around _them_ , and considering half of them didn't even want to come to Ichabod for the party (and getting laid by new people), it says something--he's not sure what, but _something_ \--they don't seem to remember the recruits haven't been with them all along. 

He remembers what Kamal said when they were watching Amanda testing them on the training field that day, about getting to know them now when they'll eventually be living with them; only now, he gets that Kamal was being both figurative and really goddamn literal. They might not always like each other, may never have spoken to each other outside a mission, but watching them fight Croats from the wall under Cas's command, his militia worked together like they lived in each other's skin. That's not just their training or two years in semi-isolation from the world (though yeah, that probably helped) but something else entirely; something that just might explain why Amanda knew the demon chasing them outside the wall wasn't just from Chitaqua, but _who_ she was, how Alicia figured out the same damn thing. If Carol doesn't recognize their recruits as Chitaqua on sight, either she's been away too long or--more likely--there may be more than one reason she left Chitaqua and why Andy loved her but still stayed behind.

It's only now--five months and change after that night in the infirmary after Chuck revealed him to the camp and Cas told him why he made Dean wear those sigils--that he realizes there's no fucking way he should have been able to pass. Near death by Lucifer whatever, he would have--should have-- _felt_ wrong. If Alicia and Amanda could both identify Erica--while running from Croats, as a demon, and in a body not her own--Dean should have had a bullet in his head on sight the moment he got out of the jeep, before Cas could say a goddamn thing.

Abruptly, he remembers fighting the initial Croat attack two days ago and then bravely running almost three fucking miles to that door; he didn't have their training, had no goddamn idea what they were doing--hell, he'd never even _fought_ with them before--but it didn't matter. He knew _them_ , and they knew him, like.... 

"Dean?" 

He jerks his thoughts back to now. "Yeah, good idea," he says belatedly, then catches that second name. "Rosario? Isn't she behind the rest of the class?"

"According to Amanda's reports, very much, though she's making excellent progress," Cas agrees. "I'm intrigued by Alicia's idea of training students using music; I should have thought of that myself. The performance aspect--"

"Right, I'm just saying--" He's not sure where he's going with this. "I thought Amanda picked ones with a fastest learning curve for this class?" He tries to remember Rosario specifically in training the times he observed, but Haruhi generally dominated his attention (and everyone else's, for that matter). It's not every day someone five foot two can wipe the floor with pretty much every student without looking like she's making much of an effort, but Jesus. Derek's impressive because he's six feet tall and has the muscle mass, like Kara, who's five ten and is literally nothing but pure muscle; he's _seen_ both of them pick up members of their team during training and actually _run_ them to safety. Then he looks at Cas and gets it. "Amanda didn't pick her-- _you_ did."

Cas shrugs. "I suggested her when Amanda brought me her choices, yes."

Which means Rosario wasn't on her list at all. "How was she? Compared to Haruhi--"

"You may as well ask how Haruhi compares to me," he interrupts blandly. "There's no comparison."

Dean frantically reviews his memories of training again, looking for someone outright terrible, but nothing. "Okay, not that I can remember seeing her out there--"

"You can't?" Dean looks at him sharply. "But you remember Haruhi well enough to ask me for a comparison against her."

"Well, yeah, she's hard to miss...." He wonders if he's missing something, but before he can ask for more information, he realizes Headquarters is ten feet away. Filing it away for later (there's a lot of that), he tries to brace himself for what comes next.

* * *

When they get to the Situation Room, Joe is talking with Vera and Kamal, and the Micah notebook is open in Alicia's hands; from where she is in it, she's reading fast. Vera looks up, expression carefully neutral, and Dean really hopes Ichabod's benefits package sucks, because seriously. Taking a breath, he pauses, identifing a mix of mint and--sage?--and spots two blue and green striped candles discreetly burning in the far corner, which he assumes is to promote something that includes 'calm' and 'don't kill Dean'. Maybe he should have Vera hold one, just in case. 

"Almost done," Alicia says without looking up. Dean's not surprised she can read Joe's what the fuck handwriting; she'd probably spontaneously develop the ability to read Sanskrit on sheer Alicia-ness.

"Right," he starts as Cas joins Vera on the couch, which could be Cas being a supportive friend or wanting to be on hand to stop her from going for another Dean Winchester, and why did he remember that right now? 

He's halfway across the room when the door opens, and not even surprising, it's Alison with Teresa and Amanda in tow. From Alison's expression, she's learned a whole new level of 'cranky'. "Hey Alison."

"Dealing with _demons_?" she demands before she's even through the door, and Dean can't get over how someone in bent wire-rimmed glasses and rocking three pencils in her hair--one about to stab her ear--can swallow up a room with the sheer power of her annoyance with all within her sight. He's kind of glad that's not privileged information or anything, because he's pretty sure the entire building heard that. "Because that worked really well before?"

"The wall--" Cas starts before Dean can give him the 'shut up' look because no, the wall is not proof of the okayness of anything.

"You, shut up," she snaps, and Teresa, looking apologetic, closes the door with a sigh. "Dean?"

Dean realizes everyone is looking at him. Oh, _now_ he's leader of Chitaqua: when it's his fault. "Amanda briefed you?" She nods impatiently. "You tell me; what should I have done?"

That stops her--for an entire second. "Called me in to at least be there! Not that you aren't scary, honey," she tells Teresa, who nods in resignation at being a delicate flower while carrying almost as many weapons as he does (not including the witch thing). "Just, I don't know, something."

"Well, _something_ would definitely have helped, sorry. Could have used some of that." Dropping casually onto the arm of the couch by Cas, he immediately regrets it; the sharp pain from his inner thigh and--weirdness of other places--come together to create the least fucking appropriate moment in history to...feel that. Shifting carefully, he glances at Cas and knows for an absolute fucking fact he's not oblivious at all. "Grab a chair and sit down. This won't take long."

Looking mutinous--why? Why stand when you don't have to?--Alison retrieves two, handing Teresa into the first like she's made of glass before dropping deliberately into the other one directly across from Dean just in case her glare needs the help of direct line of sight. It doesn't, thanks, but looking her over, Dean wonders if she slept at all last night, and he doesn't think it's just the sweater that makes her look so thin. The hazel eyes are too big, too bright in a face with skin stretched too tightly over the high cheekbones. Involuntarily, he thinks of Carol in the infirmary. "Hey, you okay?"

Alison looks her opinion of him asking questions. "Fine."

"After Dolores kicked her out of the infirmary last night, she toured the big building we just got up off Seventh to see if it was up to spec, tried to help, was herded away from anything involving electricity--tell Sean and Lena thank you--"

"Teresa!"

"--and went back to Admin, where she proceeded to fall asleep on her desk and drool over inventory lists," Teresa finishes grimly. "At which time, I came to get her and she slept badly in our bed for a whole three hours. We may need to talk pre-nuptial agreement, _honey_."

"Bad dreams?" Dean asks, then tenses, because there's also _bad dreams_. "Uh--"

"No," Alison grinds out. "Just normal we're all going to die, not a preview of how." She sighs unhappily, slumping. "I never thought I'd say this, but I wouldn't mind having something this time. A little guidance would be nice."

"If it helps," Cas says, "as we discussed before, your clairvoyance is actually _useful_ ; it's personal, not general--which in an Apocalypse you definitely do not want it to be otherwise--and is triggered by a potential decision that _you_ make: in other words, something you yourself can actually _do_. While you make many decisions every day as a person and mayor--major and minor--there is very little that is affected by your decision alone, and something like this--"

"Too many variables," Dean says wisely and gets a flicker of a smile from Cas and blank expressions from everyone else. Awesome. "This isn't craps; it's poker, and everyone in this town is playing. Can't make someone less lucky. Or more," he adds thoughtfully. "Just gotta play the hand you're dealt, hope for the best, and cheat if you gotta."

There's a long pause before Kamal says, sounding strangled, "Was that--was that a _life lesson_?"

"Could be," Dean agrees enigmatically: why not? "I do those sometimes."

Amanda looks at Joe desperately. "He does those?"

"Once," Joe answers, gazing pensively into the distance, "he almost made us conquer Kansas in his name to teach us a very valuable lesson about friendship."

"Even Michael was never allowed to conquer the world," Cas says wistfully. "I even had a tentative design for my standard all would carry and that would become a source of dread and fear to all who would behold it." Giving the impression of someone letting go of a life's dream, he sighs. "Friendship and fair trade of potatoes and vegetables is, of course, far preferable. For that is our way."

"I'm sorry Dean crushed your dreams of conquest," Alison says sympathetically. "If I go megalomaniac--provided I don't go crazy in a bathtub of heroin--you're my first choice for general of my crazy army. Promise."

Cas smiles at her. "I appreciate it."

"All right," Dean says loudly, "back to the crazy demon outside and not the crazy people in here. We have until dawn; who wants to start?"

Alicia lowers the notebook, finger marking the page. "So, Erica planned something."

"No _shit_!" Cas gives him a disappointed look. "Sorry," he adds, not sorry at all but ready to move on. "If we'd kept her talking a little longer--"

"No, not planning-- _planned_ ; it's already in progress." Alicia leans forward in her chair. "She wouldn't have called you out there unless she was very sure it was working. Terrible chess player, good at poker but not great, won't play craps to save her life, see what I mean?"

It should weird him out that yeah, he does. "Can't do long term planning, doesn't bluff, doesn't like risk and won't play on it: whatever it is, she's already sure--or as sure as she can be--that it'll work." 

Alicia nods confirmation to assume they're fucked.

"Even if we give her Micah--which we're not--he's not what she's really after here," he finishes. "Great."

"She wants Micah," Joe disagrees."She set up an entire goddamn ambush outside the walls to get him, and that doesn't include what happened on his way here with Carol. Not saying it almost didn't work or it wasn't good, but it wasn't exactly up there with Genghis Khan when it comes to strategy: all it had going for it was surprise--and hey, we _were_ surprised--and numbers, and the numbers were kind of thrown in for the hell of it. Very Erica." Alicia glances up to nod confirmation before returning to her reading, and Dean fights the impulse to ask her how she would have done it. "This was opportunistic; she saw her chance and took it, using whatever she had on hand to get it done."

"All that for one guy?" Dean asks skeptically. From the corner of his eye, he watches Alicia's expression, hoping for something unguarded, but no; there's an audience and Alicia is a good performer.

"She would," Alicia agrees in support of Joe. "You know the saying; you send--"

"--Stanley when they won't talk, Terry if they won't help, and Erica when you want to win, and don't care how," Dean finishes for her. 

"For the record," Alison interjects, "I like the other version of this much better. With the skillsets that don't have horrifying implications, unspoken but not like you can't read between the lines."

"You're not the only one," he tells her. "I don't want to know what they say about me, by the way, in case anyone was going to do that." Vera doesn't look at him, which just means she's making up something right now in her head if there wasn't anything before. 

"Jeffrey warned Micah about her," Joe continues. "Assuming Micah was telling the truth, which gonna say, in that one instance, I'm inclined to believe him. Especially considering what else Jeffrey told him about that little talk and shoot he had with Cas."

"Then why did she want to talk to us in the first place?" he demands. "She had to know we weren't gonna hand him over to her!"

"Well--" Joe starts doubtfully, having spent quality time listening to Micah talk and transcribing it to boot.

"I'm saying ethics and not being a shitty person aside," Dean explains, "I wouldn't give her a bullet to the head if she asked for it. Just _knowing_ she wanted bullets would have me signing anti-gun petitions just so she would never get one!"

He notes in satisfaction that not one person tries to explain how that doesn’t make any fucking sense, because hey, it _does_.

"Which means," Cas says blandly, "that she didn't want to convince us to give her Micah, and there was another reason she wanted to talk."

"What did she say to you during that cone of silence, anyway?" Amanda asks curiously, but he doesn't miss the sharp blue gaze. "You know, that made Cas shoot her?"

Dean freezes, mind utterly blank. Yeah, an explanation for that would be good here, and hey, he really should have come up with one.

"She told Dean she fired the first shot at the cabin that night," Cas says, sounding bored, and in the part of Dean's mind blessing Cas's ability to not-lie on demand, he notes Alicia's head come up sharply. "How much she regretted failing, how she wishes they'd tried again, and then proceeded to taunt him about her actions in Chitaqua under his very nose. It was annoying."

Joe sits back, looking incredulous. "Let me get this straight--she called us out there just to spend two thirds of the conversation gloating down memory lane with you two? What, she's taking lessons in how to be a shitty supervillain?"

"It was like having to listen to Lucifer," Cas replies, wrinkling his nose fastidiously. "But without the megalomania, which might have been terrifying but at least provided variety in conversation." He frowns, slumping back into the couch. "She also said those who can't do, teach. It seems to be a day for my abilities to be called into question; at least she didn't imply that I couldn't kill a demon--"

"Oh God," Vera interrupts despairingly, "let it _go_."

Cas doesn't answer, which Dean takes as someday, sure, but not yet. Okay, then, time to subtly change the subject, and since he has no idea how to do that, he's glad Joe jumps in. "If she wasn't lying about leaving at dawn, then that's exactly how long we have to figure out what's going on. And hope we can either stop it or mitigate it, and I'm betting the latter is best case scenario here."

So Joe's optimistic. "Think she's avoiding the Misborn?"

"Oh yeah, if she knows, and let's assume she does. In which case, that may not be a hard deadline, just how long she'll wait." Joe shrugs. "In other words, she's probably fucking with us; I seriously doubt she was sincere about sharing her timetable to help us out."

"So could be done in five minutes or by dawn, we just don't know? Because Erica." Joe nods helpfully. "We're hoping-- _hoping_ \--this takes a while, then. Whatever it is."

"Well," Joe answers thoughtfully, "the longer it takes, the bigger and worse it probably is, so...."

"Having established that, question," Alicia says before Dean can decide which option here is more horrifying. "Did Crowley authorize this?"

Dean looks at her, then at Cas. Erica as good as admitted that Crowley didn't authorize the collection of Micah, but that's about it. "Well?"

"Unfortunately, during our meeting, I didn't have the opportunity to ask him about things that hadn't happened yet," Cas answers seriously. "Nor, if I had, could I speak for his veracity. However--all else being equal--he doesn't like her, doesn't trust her, can't control her, and as Joseph said, this is opportunistic and personal. Unless he's an idiot, he wouldn't give her _carte blanche_ to carry out a private vendetta on earth, especially among her own former compatriots; nothing would be worth the risk. Also, I suspect that he, too, would sign an anti-gun petition if Erica wanted a bullet."

Dean interprets risk to include 'her going after Dean' or doing anything to fuck up that first contract that's already turned into a clusterfuck. He's got to survive after all; might fuck things up if Erica took out Dean Winchester the first's replacement, unless there's another one somewhere. There are a lot of worlds out there...and he needs to not think about that.

"So exactly how long can she fly under Crowley's radar if he doesn't know?" Alicia asks. "Ballpark? That little chat--end to end, about an hour? Five days in Hell: Crowley decided to start his weekend nap early?"

Dean opens his mouth and shuts it. "Good question. How the hell _is_ she getting away with this? Why would he give her topside privileges at all when she pissed him off?" 

"There's fucking with your minions' heads for reasons, and then there's stupid," Amanda states. "I'm almost at stupid; why the hell was she even _on_ Crossroads duty in the first place?" She looks around them. "Here's what we know for sure: about two months ago, Jeffrey told Micah that Erica was after him and he ran; about how long would it take after she rose that she wasn't still crazy from the rack?"

It can take time--sometimes years, sometimes decades, sometimes never--before a demon is more than mindless cringing and terrorized obedience, but no surprise, she's off curve there, too. "Her? A year at most," Dean says without thinking, wondering incredulously how anyone could have missed it--Alistair made that mistake with him, too, you'd think they'd learn--and stiffens, but no one seems to notice. "And _more_ crazy, just a different kind."

"Point," Amanda says. "So that's what, three days on earth? Fast forward to five days ago, Erica answered Cas at the Crossroad; the next day, Micah saw her when that Hellhound went after Carol trying to get to him thirty miles outside Ichabod; two days after that, she's sending Croats to break the ward line; now today. You're telling me _Crowley_ is okay with his minions wandering around the greater Kansas area without a leash?"

"He wants her to think he's weak," Cas offers.

"He's doing a good job," Alicia says thoughtfully, and Dean realizes once again he's in a room with the smartest person he's ever met. "Or something's holding him back. Question is, what?"

That's exactly what's starting to worry him. Loose-cannon Erica is terrifying, but somehow, he doesn't think it's better if the reason Crowley isn't controlling her is that goddamn contract might not be letting him. And of course Alicia would jump to that; this rate, she's gonna stumble over that first contract before they can work out how the hell to explain it to anyone (he doesn't even pretend keeping that a secret isn't going to bite them in the ass somehow). Alison, he may be able to get away with some lack of clarity, at least for a little while, but Miss _Deux Ex Machina_ over there is a different story. 

"You're thinking--you are, I know it--'Alicia, give us revelation on Erica's plan'." Alicia shrugs. "I can't. But Micah, that's a gimme, the golden rule of villainy; if you can't beat them, join them."

Amanda closes her eyes. "Micah would be stupid enough to try to deal with Erica. Again. Because that worked out so well for him last time. With the Hellhounds gone, he'd know the precautions to take even if Erica was stupid enough to test the ward line. It was what, about eighteen, twenty hours between when we saw him before the attack and he was caught, so--"

"Amanda," Alison interrupts, "we have guards on the bricked postern doors, all the gates are sealed but the western one, and we have people on _them_. No one could get through the gates or the doors; the wall's new, but defense isn't."

"And there hasn't been a summoning," Teresa adds, and Dean sees the faint, dark gleam in her eyes.

"He went over it," Amanda answers. "Go out after dark, get a rope, climb down."

"We have guards patrolling...." Alison makes a face. 

"He knows how patrol and watch work. Probably an hour before the shift change; almost there but not quite, feels like forever, especially when nothing's going on. Takes time, experience, and sometimes, someone terrorizing the fuck out of you one night in the cabin--"

"Do we really need to bring that up again?" Dean asks.

"--to learn not to glaze over, and yes, until the day I die," she finishes blithely, turning her attention to Teresa, who looks grim. "Not your fault, Teresa. You have a lot of new people on the wall, and honestly, it's better no one saw him: otherwise, easy to trip and fall off the wall in the dark with some help."

Alison's glare at Dean intensifies. "You're all ninjas. Of _course_ you are."

"I didn't train 'em. Not all by myself," Dean protests before he can stop himself. "Cas did!"

"I did," Cas agrees. "If I didn't loathe Micah with all my being, I would be very proud he's retained so much of his training. I'm proud anyway, you understand, but I'm attempting not to be, because it's Micah."

"He probably had the idiots two to help do the hard, hard work of finding a rope and pulling him back up," Amanda adds disparagingly. "His upper arm strength was never anything to write home about."

"And they'd go along with that?" Alison asks incredulously. "Please help me go over the wall to see a demon?"

"They're that stupid," Alicia assures her. "If he even told them anything."

"They were of the quality one usually associates with minions who choose a substandard leader, as in, they probably didn't even think to ask why he wanted to climb up and down the wall in what was probably the middle of the night," Cas confirms. Dean hasn't even met the guys but is now surprised they know to breathe regularly just from reputation. "I agree: Micah made another deal with her, either for his survival until his contract comes due, or--Micah being a lawyer--a way out of his contract."

"You can do that?" Teresa asks as Alison frowns into the distance, hazel eyes unfocused.

"It's not common but it's certainly not unprecedented," Cas answers. "However, it's more complicated than simply making another trade. You're buying your soul from Hell itself, above and beyond the price the demon demands."

"Unlike cars," Dean says brightly, "human souls actually appreciate in value. In case anyone was wondering."

"If Hell isn't satisfied by the trade, it's still binding, but the difference is paid by the demon who authorizes the trade," Cas continues. "If Erica agreed to release Micah, the price she set must be very high, not just to satisfy Hell, but to satisfy her personally. For the first, that could be anything, but the second....considering how much trouble she's gone to already, I can't imagine anything that _would_."

"Which might explain why Erica's plan is in progress; it's that big." Cas's expression tells him he's not wrong, which means they might have until dawn after all, fuck their lives. This would be the time to get to that extradition thing. "Look, Alison, about Micah--"

"Ichabod agrees to the extradition of the prisoner to Chitaqua's custody immediately," Alison says abruptly, blinking at them. "Pick him up whenever you want, but I like soon."

That was easy, which means somehow, it's gonna go wrong. "Ichabod's council--"

"Just cleared it with all voting members of the council, not one objection," she says with a small, satisfied smile that widens when she meets Cas's eyes. "I'm getting better at this." Seeing Dean's surprise, she snorts. "What? Not like it was a hard sell. You thought we wanted to keep him? Even if we did, Naresh is about to forget to not push him out a window on accident, and I can tell you now, we'll all forget to care."

Alicia's expression darkens. "What'd the asshole do to piss off Naresh?"

"What do you think?" Alison rolls her eyes at Alicia's bewildered expression. "Naresh wouldn't repeat, but Micah now knows better than to so much as say your name where he or his people can hear it."

Unguarded Alicia: she stares at Alison as if she doesn't understand what she said, and that overpowered brain goes into overdrive trying to work out the obvious. "Oh."

"So where we gonna put him?" Amanda asks practically. "Anyone check to see if we had a dungeon? Seriously: aren't there like, two doors in the basement that we haven't been able to get the locks off yet? Going by the theme here, I'm going to be genuinely surprised if there's not one."

"I doubt they kept prisoners here," Dean says, though actually, who knows?

Amanda grins. "I'm talking about the _other_ kind of dungeon. Come on, like all those rings bolted to the walls in the showers, saunas, and Jacuzzis--and the bidet--for casual bondage quickies weren't a clue. You want something a little more elaborate for those extended work lunches."

"Three doors, Ana's working out the C4 calculations," Alicia says, tearing her gaze from Alison to grin at Amanda. "Who knew you could do that with a bidet, am I right?"

"Seriously," Dean says, making a note to check out the bidet. "Back on subject: Micah?"

"We got a non-locked room down there," Joe says loudly. "Nice and big, no windows, one entrance and absolutely no places to attach anyone for anything. Used to be a file room," he adds reluctantly, and suddenly he's glaring at Dean. "Still had a couple of file cabinets, in fact."

Dean waits, but.... "I give up, why are you pissed at me?" Then, "Any files in those cabinets you happen to have read? Law files, maybe?"

Joe sinks down in his chair as Amanda asks, "What are law files?" 

"A bet I just won." He sees Alison's eyes fixed in the middle distance before she starts to grin. "What?"

"Naresh. Give him about an hour and a half to finish up, and he wants to know what color bow you would like," she answers, grinning at them. "It's a given it'll be wrapped around Micah's neck." She makes a face. "And Tony and Claudia say hi, and I need to take some reports, see some people, do some things. Before I forgot, Teresa: double the watch on the doors and gates, and get a description of the idiots two to everyone. Also, we need a description."

"I'll give the order as soon as your babysitters take you off my hands," she answers sweetly, smiling at Dean. "Don't worry--Christina's team is taking a break in the mess. They'll be on her before she gets out the door. The description--"

"I got it." Alison scowls half-heartedly, obviously distracted, and belatedly, he realizes she was looking at Cas, who--he's not sure what expression means. "Yell if you need me." Heaving herself out of the chair, she makes a face, and Dean's reminded of people wearing Bluetooth headsets you can't see and talking to not-so-imaginary friends. "Yeah, that's definitely weird," she says under her breath as she starts toward the door, and Teresa jumps up with a quick wave and follows Alison closely enough to stop her from running into the door if needed (on a guess, that's happened). "Turn left, focus--there we go, I see it. Okay, probably not, and where would you get a cat to do it? Try not to blink for ten seconds--no, all of you, count of three--and hey, don't think of any pink elephants--one, two, three...boom, we are _on fire_."

Amanda and Joe watch her leave with fond smiles. "She's getting better," Amanda says after the door closes. "Didn't fall over her own feet or run into the wall."

"Huh," Vera says. Amanda looks down at her, but she just shrugs. "Okay, anything else? I got a request from Dolores to get to the infirmary when I can, so...."

"Amanda, take Ana's team to pick up our prisoner," he says, aware of Joe and Amanda pretending not to look between Vera and him. "Joe, you're in charge of our first prison in Ichabod; too bad we can't have a party, but no cake."

"I'd like to see it first," Cas says. "Not that I don't trust your judgement--"

"You want to imagine Micah in it and how uncomfortable we can make him," Joe says, nodding. "That's pretty much my reason, too."

"Before we all conveniently forget--I know I want to--but who're we getting to interrogate the asshole?" Vera asks brightly, eyes turning to Dean. "Gonna do it yourself?"

"I thought you might want the job," he responds, smiling back.

"Or you two can get out your whatevers outside the interrogation room, because fuck if this shit is going in there," Amanda says sharply. Vera crosses her arms, settling back against the couch, and Dean winces, shifting uncomfortably and getting a throb of pain from his thigh for his trouble. "Biggest question: any of us qualified to get anything out of him? Joe, you listened to him and Dean--what's your feeling on him?"

"He didn't tell us anything he didn't plan to," Joe answers, resting his ankle on one knee and leaning back. "Guy was a lawyer and a really good one--I would have hired him--and we're kindergarten compared to what he did in a courtroom. And he knows it. Dean threw him off a few times, but--"

"Noticed that," Alicia says thoughtfully, tapping the notebook. "I'm impressed; he was, actually, that good. Made partner at twenty-six."

"Didn't know you knew him that well," Vera says and Dean belatedly feels the growing charge. "You were together, what, five, six months--"

"Coming up on our eleven year anniversary," Alicia says, wrinkling her nose. "What is that, not paper, not gold--small household appliances, maybe? Cutlery? I can do that."

Seeing the surprise on everyone's faces (and trying not to feel smug at the way Vera looks at anything but Alicia), Dean plows back to the original subject. "Amanda, any thoughts?"

"On how to get divorce papers in the Zone?" She casually rests a hand on Vera's shoulder, squeezing gently, and Vera relaxes. "Honestly, no. I'd say leave it to Alison, she can read thoughts--if she'd do it--but that's not what we need.…" She looks at Cas, who shakes his head. "That's what I figured. I tested her a couple of times myself."

"What am I missing?" Vera asks. "If she can read his thoughts--"

"That's what he's _thinking_ ," Amanda explains. "Ask Alison what hearing random thoughts is like: hint, kind of like tripping but without the fun, not a lot of context, and pretty abstract most of the time. Even if we can get him thinking in the right way--and why would he think his entire plan up in order, detailed, just because we're asking questions? We don't even know the right questions to ask--there's no guarantee it's accurate or even true." Vera looks up at her in confusion. "What, you never lie to yourself? I'm only borrowing this bread and peanut butter, when Mom and Dad get back we'll leave them a check, really."

Dean meets Amanda's eyes for a moment of shared amusement; you get good at that shit.

"Do it well enough," she continues, "you can convince yourself of anything. Micah didn't strike me as the kind to admit he's ever done anything wrong in his life; he's had practice, is what I'm saying. Anyway, a truthsayer, very legendary, also a totally and much suckier skillset from what I've read."

 _People are better than they think they are_ , Alison told him; so that's what she meant. "She can tell something, but yeah, throwing our baby psychic at Micah's like asking a guy who jogs a couple of times a week to do the Boston Marathon the next day. Cas?"

"I agree, though for this reason as well; she's become more proficient at shielding, but she's been jogging up to now and this town is indeed a marathon. With this many minds, the cost is even higher; maintaining them requires far more energy than that required when it was just the town's residents, lowering them entirely when she rests is a risk she can't take, even with Teresa's assistance, and what sleep she gets is frequently interrupted."

That would explain a lot. "She's tired."

"Very, and every day the strain on her is growing. Everyone she speaks to now are minds she's used to and knows very, very well and can filter through her shields with minimal risk and at minimal cost to herself. While line of sight and proximity helps shorten the amount of time it takes to find him when she lowers her shields, she'd still be exposed to every mind in this town during that time."

"Same reason I couldn't call her from the wall the other day," Amanda agrees. "Too many people: even if she heard me, that's a lot of minds to get through to find mine."

"She can hear you, though," Dean says to Cas without thinking and wonders belatedly if he's supposed to know that. But Cas just looks at him. "And you her."

"That's different; I'm a box she can't _not_ see," he answers, mouth quirking. "I'm also her instructor and she's my student. If I'd been with you outside the walls, she could have easily spoken to Amanda by finding her through me, though granted if I were there, that would have been unnecessary."

"But if she _could_ find out something--anything," Vera starts.

"It is my recommendation as second in command of Chitaqua that we do not ask," Cas answers with a finality that makes Dean wonder how much of this is actually about Alison's mental health. "I also recommend that if she should offer, we refuse, politely of course."

Dean looks at him sharply, but then Kamal asks, "What were you saying about her not being able to tell if he's lying?"

"There's a reason truthsayers were and still are very rare," Cas explains. "They're not popular at the best of times, and that's if they don't go insane and kill themselves, which occurs with understandable if deplorable frequency." Actually, Dean can see that, now that he thinks about it; like Alison said, knowing so much is bad enough, but it can't be better to know only true versus lie. Maybe even worse: it wouldn't take long for them to believe they were insane, not the rest of the world. "Alison can sense it somewhat, but it's at a very rudimentary level, and with the sheer amount of information she receives even from one mind, it's not consistent. When she's more comfortable with what she can do now and has more experience with human minds, we'll begin instruction on how to identify truth in what she reads."

Dean looks down at Cas. "She can do that, too? Eventually, I mean."

"Of course." Like he's not sure if Dean's deliberately playing dumb or not.

"Just curious," Vera starts, and Dean hears the same tone in her voice as that 'huh', "but what all _could_ she do?"

"It would be both easier and take much less time to list what she can't do," Cas answers calmly. "The single item would be 'I'm curious about that as well'."

Dean fights off a chill with an effort. "Be interesting to find out, I guess--"

"I mean, now," Vera interrupts. "Sorry, I haven't been around for all this really important bonding time you've all had with Ichabod's mayor, so maybe I'm the only one who's curious why we aren't wondering a little more about her. Mind-reading, truthsensing--okay, bad truthsensing--"

"She can also yell very loudly," Cas adds like that might help. "Psychically, I mean. The night of the wall, you may have heard--"

"That's what that was? Her?" Vera asks, jerking straight, and okay, how many potential disasters can happen in five fucking minutes? The brown eyes fly to Dean. "And you're okay with this? Why am I not surprised?"

"Uh, Vera--" Joe starts: gotta give him credit for courage if not good sense.

"Shut up. Dean? Why do we have people assigned in a town that's run by a psychic that so far, I've seen can talk to anyone she knows in this town, sometimes several at once, may be able to tell if we're lying, and Cas doesn't even know what the fuck she could become? Am I crazy or is it just the rest of you?"

"I trust her," he answers into the waiting silence; okay, _now_ he'd like some support, thanks.

"Because you trust her," Vera says evenly. "How about we talk about some of the other people you've trusted?"

"If you want worst case scenario, you need merely ask," Cas interjects so smoothly that only belatedly does everyone turn toward him. "The most powerful telepath to walk the earth enslaved an army, and they conquered the world in his name."

There's no sound at all, even breathing, until Vera says, "What?" 

"He conquered the world," Cas says. "He stripped countless minds of everything that made them human, everything that made them _them_ , even their names; he implanted absolute devotion and mindless obedience, had them trained to be soldiers, set himself at the head of an army unlike anything this world has ever seen, and began his conquest. Those who met him in battle were faced with seemingly endless numbers of soldiers perfect in their skill, suicidal in their devotion, and unbending in their loyalty; even the greatest general born could not win against an army like that. He enslaved the earth itself everywhere he conquered, taking from it everything it could give until nothing remained, to retain his youth and health; millions starved to death, millions more starved themselves and their children to lay the last of their food under the feet of his armies and watch them crush it into the dead earth. He twisted and destroyed the minds of thousands to create his court and his army; he burned out the minds of captured men and women to be given as sex slaves to his soldiers, and his court's entertainment included but was not limited to mass torture of prisoners, their bodies cannibalized while still alive for the evening meal; if he could imagine it, he tried to do it, simply because he could. He wanted to create a world in his own image and came dangerously close to achieving godhood."

"Jesus," Vera breathes, and Dean sees her dark skin is nearly ashen.

"At the height of his power, he held nine-tenths of the world under his personal control, the last tenth subjugated to the point of surrender. When free will is abrogated at that great a scale, even by another human, the Host could act under their own authority on earth," Cas continues. "When his army penetrated the startling sophisticated defenses of the only humans left on earth who would stand against him, we unleashed ourselves.

"When we came for him, we exterminated fifty million to breach the walls of his capital city; ten million more died to keep us from his fortress, and when we entered its walls, infants and children were thrown on our swords by their own parents to keep us from his chambers. Living human bodies were twisted into anti-angel sigils and warded to keep us at bay, still able to speak enough to banish us almost as quickly as we could manifest; we had to burn them alive with holy fire. The Host walked in blood knee-deep and for all we killed, more came to take their places before the last were even fully dead. One hundred million enslaved minds were joined into a net to protect his, and we had to burn them all out one by one to finally reach his. When he realized he couldn't win, he captured the minds of every living being in the world he could grasp and began to destroy them, leaving living, breathing husks without consciousness to slowly die where they fell."

Joe makes a breathless sound, and Dean reaches for Cas's shoulder, squeezing tentatively.

"Michael led half the Host in holding back his followers while we shattered the warding around his chambers, and Anael planted her sword in his stomach and pinned him to his floor," Cas says, and Dean's aware of a vague, unfocused image forming in his head; a massive stone room, each detail more horrific than the last; walls hung with tapestries and floor rugs woven of human hair and organs and skin between still-rotting, screaming corpses, scattered with dead bodies and worse, some still alive. He glimpses a burned-out slice of sky in angry oranges and reds between drapes of tanned human flesh, a less refined version, he realizes, of the leather coat and breeches the outraged man wears as he climbed down from a gleaming, polished throne of human bone and decorated with teeth.

Anael--Anael not as she was on earth, but he knows her anyway--steps forward, wearing a breastplate worked in Enochian sigils and made of gleaming light, kilt plated in silver ice and flame as she slams him to the floor at the base of the dais that held his throne. Flipping her sword over her wrist as he's seen Cas do so many times, the blade extends as she stabs down through his belly and pins him to that obscene floor with a crack that shakes the earth. For a moment, her face flickers, and Dean glimpses something glowing and stern, ivory and obsidian, vermilion and gold, ageless and expressionless, and filled with cold rage.

"We trapped his mind within the confines of that room," he hears Cas say as a dozen--a hundred--glowing forms fan into a wide circle, and Dean finds Cas among them without effort, as expressionless and enraged as Anael. "We offered him a choice; would he die, agonizingly over years of endless pain beneath our eyes before he would learn the pleasures of the rack in Hell, or live and atone for his crimes until true repentance is achieved. In return, he may indeed have a world made in his image."

The throne room begins to shiver, and Dean can see the man's mouth work helplessly, blood spilling down his chin, before spitting out his answer in contempt.

"He picked the latter," Vera says confidently, and while it's not that Dean doesn't agree--guy definitely did--he also knows why he did and how stupid that was. "Certain death and Hell or live? That type, easy choice."

"Oh yeah," Dean says softly as ribbons of light crawl across the throne room floor and up the walls, and outward through the city and then the world, time stopped in an instant; for a moment, Dean feels a sweep of agony and then relief and exaltation and ecstasy multiplied by a billion--by _billions_ \--as each human soul is pulled free, reapers gathering them tenderly from their suffering and taking them away. Then something like a pause, followed by something not unlike the slice of a blade across time and space that parts spacetime from itself. As easily as a rug, time and the world itself are rolled backward, a world unconquered, land unpoisoned, an army unmarched: bodies are resurrected in the blink of an eye, lives lived in reverse before they're within their mother's wombs again, over and over before abruptly coming to a sudden stop; it takes a second for Dean to pick up what's so special about that point in time. "How long?"

"Using the age of the first to be born who would die either by his hand, at his order, or in consequence of his actions to the moment Anael's sword was planted in his belly, eight hundred and sixteen years were divided from this world and placed within its own loop," Cas answers, and there's another slice, the roll of time and space free. A pocket is carved into the curves of spacetime, and eight hundred and sixteen years are unrolled within it, begun with the sound of a newborn's first cry. "He is everyone within it, father and son, mother and daughter, sister and brother, spouse and spouse, soldier and farmer, merchant and professional, murderer and victim, and most justly, himself. And so shall he remain for the sum of the length of the life of each person who died by his hand, at his order, or in consequence of his actions, or until true repentance is achieved."

"A world," Dean says softly, watching it form, "in his own image."

"Such was the judgement of the Host," Cas answers, an echo of old satisfaction in his voice. "This was our will; so it was, is, and shall be done."

"Does he know?" Vera asks, hushed, and like that, Cas slides back into human without missing a beat.

"Yes, of course," he assures them. "Every night when he goes to sleep."

Dean does his math on Creation and the number of lives involved here, and sure, he doesn't know the history of the world in detail, but he kind of thinks he may need a lot more math. "So when was this again?"

"I think 'he's not close to done now' is sufficient," Cas answers, giving Dean an amused look. 

From Vera's expression, she also realizes they're either missing a surprisingly large chunk of history since they started recording it…or not, since they started recording it _again_. What did Cas say: they were talking about crazy weather and Cas being lucky, and he said--

_Humanity passes points in their development that they can't easily fall behind, not without a concerted effort. Trust me when I say, humanity has tested this extensively and noticeably failed to do much damage to their long-term development as a species._

That would be why he was so sure that (minus Lucifer) they could get through this; they'd tested it (God, how many times?) and he knew what it took to make them fail.

"How'd we survive?" Dean asks, knowing everyone is thinking the same question but aren't sure if they can ask. One day, he'll tell them the only questions Cas won't answer are those that aren't asked because you don't know there's a question at all. "That last tenth?"

"The human genome and sexual reproduction assure nothing--with the single exception of Croatoan--can destroy all of you, only almost," Cas explains. "Ten thousand humans had the correct genetic sequence to be partially resistant to psychic manipulation--a tiny part of a very small but very determined rebellion that had been forming against him over generations from multiple countries and ethnic groups around the world--and the damage to their minds was mild enough and their number and genetic diversity just sufficient for viability. Otherwise, your species would have been mercifully made extinct. However, in that case, there were several promising species of primates that--"

"You can stop there," Dean tells him as Vera makes a strangled sound (and before anyone is tempted to ask about those goddamn primates and this ends in trauma and comparisons to _Planet of the Apes_ because no way someone's not thinking that _right now_. Like him).

The uptick of one corner of his mouth tells Dean just how much he'd love to expound on _Creation of the Apes_ and is only deferring because eventually, they're gonna break down and ask anyway and it's more fun to watch them torture themselves first.

"Creation itself--not under the auspices of free will and fully under the authority of the Host--was fully repaired _en toto_. Fortunately, it was within our discretion on which human structures and items are allowed to stand in the event of a major smiting event, so we were able to wipe every trace of his reign from the earth and for reasons I feel no need to explain, the remains of all civilizations in existence at that time. Not that he left much of them."

"But we would have found _something_...." Kamal starts and then trails off with a complicated look. " _Everything_?"

"Some of us," Cas admits, "may not have been as careful as we should have been. I'm certain when your dating technique is more sophisticated, you'll be quite surprised: thirty kilometers outside Nairobi and five kilometers south of Mexico City might also prove enlightening. In any case, we resettled the survivors in an area both very pleasant and fertile--we made it very, very fertile for the span of five generations--and watched very carefully to buy them enough time to learn to care for themselves again, as well as double their viable population, before scaling back our protections over the next five generations and letting them begin to be fruitful, multiply, and reclaim the world. They did very well; we were impressed." 

"You said the survivors--they were resistant?" Joe asks. "Partially, whatever. So we are, too, right? We're their descendants, and Cas, for fuck's sake, don't go into detail there, yes or no."

"Yes, one of the few times selection didn't fail," Cas states, crossing his arms mutinously at being denied more fun in traumatizing the humans. "The original problem came about because--"

"We weren't resistant," Joe says.

"No," Cas says with a frown. "It was because the psychic in question was a sociopath, and he would have been a sociopath without his abilities. They made it easier, granted, but in the end, it was simply a tool to gain power, and it was one he knew how to use very well."

"One fuck of a tool," Vera says, trying to sound wry and not quite managing. Dean risks another look around, not sure how he feels about what he sees, especially when he's not sure how the hell he feels about knowing this himself. All he can think about is Cas and Alison the day they met, Cas's expression when she showed him her mind and the tool she wielded with it: it is one _fuck_ of a tool.

"Not like there aren't a lot of tools," Alicia says unexpectedly. "All you have to do is know how to use it, you know?"

"Right place and time, any tool could do it," Joe agrees, mouth quirking as he looks at Cas. "Two weeks, right?"

Dean feels Cas's shoulder relax under his hand. "A week if we don't sleep."

Joe bursts out laughing, and looking around the room, Dean sees everyone start to relax: not all the way, but enough.

"You can't stop the creation of tools--I can tell you now that it never works--and you shouldn't be judged and found guilty for what you might do should you have any given tool," Cas says. "The solution is--"

"Learn how to defend ourselves," Amanda says in resignation.

"That's one part," he agrees. "And perhaps, to assure you never become a person who would use a tool for evil and teach others to do the same. If everyone does that, you'll be fine." He shrugs at everyone's incredulous expressions, slumping more deeply into the couch. "You're partially resistant, but you're not immune, no. So if you're wondering if that could ever happen again, yes; it would take a great deal more effort on the part of the psychic in question--and some luck--but it's possible."

Dean looks around the circle of faces and sees the reflection of his own dawning realization on every face; a street or two away is a woman who can't fight, barely shoot, and no matter how powerful she could be one day, right now she's not reading anyone's minds if she can help it and in any case sure as hell can't stop a bullet to the head: a tool of their trade to fight monsters. It's not that he thinks any of them are there right now--not yet, anyway--but that's where they could go. Might even have to.

Cas would know that, too. It's been a long time since a powerful psychic walked the earth; they don't live too long, Cas said. Kill themselves, killed by others, or…killed as kids, for a sin they not only haven't committed but don't even know exists. And in case anyone here forgot, there's a patched hole in the wall of the mess in Ichabod and a wall of invisible patches in a cabin in Chitaqua that illustrates exactly how this kind of thing goes and how it usually _doesn't_ end.

"She could probably use a lot of friends," Vera says suddenly. "That's gotta be miserable; like being at a crappy party and no one will stop talking to you, whether you care or not. Imagine hearing everyone talking shit all the time? Even if it's not about you...God. All the _time_."

"And the earplugs are of substandard manufacture and don't often work." Cas and Vera look at each other and Vera smiles reluctantly. "We're working on that part."

Okay, time to--what were they doing again? Right, Erica and _everything else_ : it's almost a relief. "So, anything else?" 

"Interrogators," Amanda says, looking like she regrets reminding him but not as much as she wanted to say pretty much anything to get out of that silence.

"Let me think about it," he answers: no fucking clue, in other words. "Vera? Can you and Kamal meet with the team leaders before you go to the infirmary? Catch them up on our visitor and what's going on, tell them to tell their teams."

"Got it," she says coolly--yeah, he's still on her shitlist--and getting to her feet, strides to the door before Kamal can even get up. He quickly turns his attention to Joe.

"Quick question," he says. "When Rohan's done with Kyle, Ana wants to know if he's free to go, or--"

"No," he answers. "He's confined to quarters until I get some time to deal with him, which assuming we survive, probably won't be until we get back to Chitaqua."

Amanda drifts toward them. "What about Kyle? What'd he do now?"

"Stalking and harassment." Amanda's eyes widen. "Speaking of, I'm gonna need you to help out Joe when we get home; we both know this happened more than once, and I want to know who, when, and exactly what he did."

Amanda and Joe exchange an unreadable look. "Okay, yeah, I can do that. But hypothetically--if I can't--what happens to him?"

"He's out of Chitaqua either way," Dean says. "What else I find out decides if he's gonna be driven to the border and dropped off with a ten day ration pack as well." Then, seeing Amanda's expression, he adds, "If they don't--hypothetically--wanna do it, fine, but they deserve the chance to report. I got enough from this alone to show him the gate and maybe slam him in the ass with it on his way out." He returns his attention to Joe. "Confined to quarters, checks every four hours--Cas, who--"

"Literally anyone, but let me check: tentatively, Sheila and Chris, though currently they're assigned to assist Tyrone with automobiles and Claudia at Volunteer Services, respectively. Joseph, could your team continue until dusk?"

"Sure."

"Great," Dean says. "That--wait, where's the bathroom?" Joe blinks. "Dude, come on, you wanna clean his room?"

"Across the hall," Joe says belatedly. "Like, three steps."

"Awesome. Tell him he's anywhere outside those three steps when not in the bathroom or his room, he gets fulltime guards and my personal attention immediately." Dean looks between them. "Any questions?"

"Nope," Joe says, glancing at Amanda. "Stephanie. Noticed how you didn't bring that up."

"Same reason you didn't," he answers. "And thanks for that; I should have said something before the meeting. Let's keep that between ourselves until I talk to her."

"Figured as much. Cas, give me a few minutes and--"

"I'll wait for you here." With a sigh, Dean drops on the couch beside him as Joe and Amanda leave and turns his attention to Cas. "I like the ten day ration pack, for the record."

"I’m leaning that way myself." He debates for a long moment, but hey, no time like the present. "You sure it was a good idea to tell them about the most evil psychic ever now?"

"There would never be a good time," Cas answers, which is true and also the point.

"Maybe not telling at all," he suggests. "Ever? You practically told them if we're not careful, we might end up as mind-controlled robots under Alison's psychic domination forever--or until Lucifer kills us all, which may or may not be worse, I'm still thinking." Cas doesn't respond, but his jaw tightening minutely, and that's what he calls a red flag. "Come on, what's going on?"

"She hasn't had a dream."

He knows it's irrational to feel betrayed, but Cas _just reassured them_ about that. At least, he felt reassured. "If she doesn't have a world-changing or whatever decision, she doesn't have them."

"There's that," Cas agrees, but he doesn't risk feeling reassured again and is justified with Cas's very next words. "There's another explanation. She already had it, and we're still waiting for what she saw to begin."

"But she hasn't had any!"

"The night before Joseph first made contact with Harlin, she woke up screaming."

"Because her answer to us joining the Alliance was what put off whatever she saw," Dean argues. "That's what she told me, anyway."

"And me as well," Cas starts.

"Actually, she didn't say that," Dean corrects himself. "I asked her if she thought she made the right decision, and she said--she said she thought so, because her worst nightmare hadn't happened yet. That first attack on Ichabod--we were there because of the agreement to let us join, that helped save the kids. What could have happened to them, that sure as hell would be worth a night of screaming."

Cas hesitates. "It is possible, yes, but--Dean, even horror can become mundane."

"You think the deaths of those kids could have just been a day ending in 'y'?" he demands. "Are you fucking with me? Whatever, human sacrifice in the courtyard, let's move on now?"

"It would have been tragic and horrific, but this is the infected zone," Cas answers evenly, suddenly sounding tired. "These people are those that have _survived_ here; it may have been unique in the details, but those that haven't lived through worse have stood witness to it. As you were a hunter to civilians in your world, so are these people to you; what you did as a job has been their lives for almost three years. Avoiding death in a variety of exotic and terrible ways is only one part of survival; the rest is learning to how to live with it--what you've seen, what you've done, what you haven't, what you've lost--and that can be far harder."

A long time ago--another life, maybe--he watched the other Dean shoot a guy like it was nothing and couldn't imagine how he could do it. Three weeks ago, he executed two humans helping that demon in Ichabod's courtyard without hesitation and doesn't regret a thing. Two days ago, he gave the order for those people to be killed outside Ichabod's walls, and it wasn't hard at all. 

"We need to be ready." Christ, he almost forgot that part. "When she saw me the first time, that feeling--whatever the fuck that means--was we need to be ready. She didn't know how much time we had, but it'll be enough." 

"Clairvoyance is rarely useful," Cas answers, but Dean realizes that he's avoiding looking at him. "It's rare it isn't actively detrimental. But it can provide guidance, at times."

Guidance. "You have another reason."

Cas doesn't answer for way too long. "She's tired."

"Tired." He tries to decide if he really wants to know, not that it actually matters; he doesn't, but he needs to. "How tired? Cas, what does that even mean?"

"If she didn't have Teresa, and Tony and Claudia and Manuel and Sudha and Mercedes and Neeraja and Naresh and Njoya..." Cas stops, licking his lips. "Talking to them regularly steals more of her strength, but there are many kinds of strength. They buoy her, give her purpose and focus, and she'll continue for them when she no longer cares what happens to herself."

"What's going to happen to her?" Cas doesn't answer. "Cas, for fuck's sake, tell me!"

"Upwards of twenty thousand minds--polite fiction, the entire state of Kansas, give or take a few, are within these walls--are pressing in on her, and all she has to defend herself is those shields," Cas answers, chillingly calm. "And she's tired."

He thinks he knows what might wake up someone in the infected zone and make them scream. "If she can't hold them...it could kill her? Getting all those minds at once?"

"What would you do if you were suddenly attacked by upward of twenty thousand people?" Cas asks, still way too calm. "It doesn't matter if they don't mean to do it; that's what they'll be doing to her just by existing. It will be instinctive; the most likely response is she'll try to burn out every one of their minds to stop them from the destroying her. She doesn't need skill for that, just raw power." Dean realizes he's not breathing. "Partial resistance will help, but only in the degree of damage done. There will be damage, and some may die from it."

It takes him two tries to form words hearing the unspoken: worse, some of them might actually survive even if they shouldn't. "Can we stop her?"

"We can try to kill her when her shields fail," Cas answers with the same distant calm. "But we won't have much time once they fully collapse; it took him only seconds to do the same to the entire world. If she's still sane once it's over, she'll probably try to kill herself if she can. If she's not--"

"Sociopath Mark II."

Cas looks up, and Dean stills at the infinite stretch of blue looking back at him, a frozen ocean. "Why would you think that?"

Somehow, he manages to answer. "The story of Sociopath Mark I, maybe?"

"I see." To his surprise, Cas looks away. "No, not that. Alison will still be Alison. When she's not the residual of every mind that flooded hers and experiencing their memories of what she did to them on a constant and unending loop, of course." Dean winces, but Cas's expression remains distant. "She'll spare herself nothing but mercy; unlike the Host, she'll never give herself that."

He doesn't know what to say to that. "Does she know...." He remembers her looking at Cas; that's why they got that heartwarming story of sociopaths gone by. "So she wasn't just getting a description of the idiots two. She knows what's going to happen."

"I do seem to attract requests for merciful homicide from among my not so vast acquaintance with alarming frequency," Cas agrees distantly, and Dean just stops himself from flinching. "I'm trying not to take it personally, of course, but it does make one wonder--"

"What did she say to you?" Dean demands.

"She presumed to remind me of my duty, again," Cas answers, a flicker of bitterness in his voice. "A habit of hers, I suppose. At least this time, I don't have to simply watch...." He stills, eyes turned inward, and Dean feels like he's standing on the edge of a precipice--or maybe Cas is. But where Cas is, he'll always be, and so there they are, and that's a long way down. "I _don't_ have to watch."

"Cas?" he prompts.

Cas looks at him, the chill melting away. "I don't like these options, Dean. I want better ones."

Right, options: they can do that. "Give 'em to me."

"If we can't stop her, she must be protected after, and that includes from herself. That will buy me time, and I'll need all I can get."

"What?"

"We'll protect her," Cas repeats. "Her mind will recover, I'll help her do it, and when she's ready, I'll begin her instruction again. I _can_ help her, Dean. I just need time."

"I'm not saying you can't," Dean starts, wondering how the hell this went--here. "But _why_?"

That, he realizes belatedly, was exactly the wrong question.

"She's a human being," Cas answers flatly, and Dean's pretty sure the room just dropped about a thousand degrees. "Her power doesn't make her less human or less worthy of help. It's not a line, it never has been, and even if it was, crossing it doesn’t mean you can't cross back."

Right, but they're not talking about knocking over a convenience store or shooting someone by accident here. They're talking about upwards of twenty thousand people and what's left of them when she's done.

"If she did something...." The entire state of Kansas damaged--whatever that means, but he can't stop thinking about those living husks that were left after that guy burned out their minds. Living, breathing, mindless bodies, people he knows, _his_ people: he imagines seeing Vera, Amanda, Joe, Alicia, Kamal, Nate, Tony, Sudha like that.... "Cas," he says slowly. "I don't think I could forgive that. Even if it was an accident." He's not sure anyone could forgive that, or forget it.

"As is your right and that of every human being," Cas agrees. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Could you? Think about it--our people, our _friends_ \--"

"Of course I have!" Shaking his head sharply, Cas is silent for a long moment. "Within a pocket of time is a world that will last eight hundred and sixteen years before starting anew. Beneath the earth is a fortress, and within that fortress lies a man on a floor of human bone and wearing robes made of human flesh, with an angel's sword through his belly who forever dies and dies not yet. His soul lives the lives of each of those upon the earth; they are all him, the memories of those who once lived within those bodies now and forever made his own." 

"For there to be justice, there must be mercy; they are one. When we set the terms of his atonement, in mercy we also gave him the means by which he could by his own effort bring it to an end.

"He can end it at any time, but it requires this; he must repent his actions, his guilt admitted and felt, remorse be experienced. Every night when he sleeps, he knows all; who he is, what he did, each life he has lived, and it is then that the question is asked while his soul lies bare. He regrets nothing, he feels no guilt, and he wishes only for the chance to do further harm. So he does, forever and ever, world without end." 

"I get it, Cas, but--"

"You don't." Cas meets his eyes. "Why is he there? Why him alone and not his armies, his generals, his court, his followers: the atrocities they committed were in his name, but they did commit them and took pleasure in it. The judgement of the Host set them free, their minds restored, their souls clean."

"He chose to do it; they didn't." That's what Cas was talking about: mercy. "Free will: you couldn't fix him because he wasn't broken. Them, he made them what they were."

"Exactly. I doubt their victims would have cared about that distinction, however, nor should they have to. There is a distinction, however: unlike them, he made _himself_ , and only he can choose to become something else. It's not about forgiveness: if that was the criteria for judgment, he would be free, for his mother forgave him for all he did to her. Your forgiveness, mine, Teresa's, Manuel's, any human born: it's ours to give or withhold, it cannot be taken or forced, but that is because it is about _us_. He was no less a monster for forgiveness nor would Alison be more of one in its absence; their choices are what make them who they are."

"What if...." Dean tries again. "What if she doesn't want to be saved?"

"No one is defined by a single action or a single mistake; they are defined by all they are and try to be," Cas says urgently, holding Dean's eyes. "I would save her, because she's a human being; I would learn to forgive her, because she's my friend; I would tell her that she is not a monster, because she's not and can choose not to be. She may not believe that, but I can believe for both of us until she can."

"Cas--" He stops, thinking: five minute rule. Can't kill it, buy time until you can get some options (or run); don't want to kill it, buy time so you won't have to. "She won't be able to stop herself."

"It's instinct," Cas explains. "She's not trained, Dean, and she's far too strong for someone so new to her abilities--"

"Like you were," Dean interrupts. "Too fast, too strong, body not ready for it--but you were trained by Dean and Amy before you Fell, so you could adjust using that." Looking surprised, Cas nods, and he makes a concerted effort not to feel smug: he can feel it later. "Okay, the shields--tell me about those."

"Right now, they act as a dam--both to protect her and others, and make it possible for her to be trained at all--but they're only as strong as her training and her will, and holding them takes practice. If she was able to break them herself to rest--if only for a few hours a day--that might have helped, but she can't with this many people here or risk exactly what we're trying to avoid. When they break--and they must, the pressure is enormous and she is only human--she can't hold back the resulting flood any more than a single person could stop a river. A very big river, it goes without saying."

This isn't like with Carol; he's got to know the right questions to ask. "Any warning for our dam breaking? Anything, Cas--will she know, can she tell someone? How fast is it gonna happen?"

"She'll know, yes. She'll try to hold it back when the collapse starts, and this being Alison, might very well succeed from sheer panic; this would be when she would like me to end her life, by the way. Teresa may be able to assist in slowing the deterioration, but not for long. At best, perhaps half an hour."

That's better than none: he'll take it. "Her range now? Safe minimum distance?"

"Thirty miles," he answers, and Dean wishes that was a surprise; that number's becoming a theme.

"We'll put it at forty, just in case." Cas raises his eyebrows encouragingly. "What if we send a team with her and she leaves Ichabod? Find someplace to hole up, they know warding, or hey, you or Teresa can teach them what to use." Let her get some sleep, too, Jesus: decades of hunting, and it's only living with Cas that's taught him the value of making someone get their ass to bed at regular intervals. 

"Now?" Cas's eyes widen, not a good sign. "That would not be a good idea, or I would have suggested that already."

He takes a deep breath: easy is for losers or people not him. "Why?"

"For one, Erica."

And that's a good (frightening) one. "Right."

"Erica and the rest of our former compatriots are outside the walls, and if you don't think they're watching this town, you were concussed in some way and I'd like to know why you didn't tell me." Fine, he missed that; that's why he's got Cas. "Alison is a powerful psychic, but she's tired and not well-trained, especially in offensive techniques; the only way she could protect herself is to try and burn out their minds--considering they're using meatsuits, that would do nothing but perhaps give them terrible headaches--and opening her mind to do that much might be enough to cause what we're trying to avoid. Either way, she'd make a truly terrifying and disastrous new outfit for Erica."

"So definitely not that." They can marker on an anti-possession symbol, but there's a difference in strength, and Erica just might be able to sense it. What he wouldn't do for a tattoo-gun, Christ. For no reason, he remembers what Dolores told him and something he's been wondering about comes into focus. "They're digging latrines and using chamberpots north of Fifth."

Cas's eyebrows draw together sharply. "I assumed the water restrictions were leading there."

"It went over well," Dean continues. "She even got volunteers to help with the digging." Cas nods agreement. "Also, Naresh needed to change buildings for a jail, Ichabod never needed one."

"With this many people," Cas says, "that's not a surprise. I'm surprised he only needed one."

"Exactly." Dean meets Cas's eyes. "Both infirmaries are working overtime--Dolores said it was all the problems of too many people, not enough space, makes sense, except that's the only place with problems. Is it just me or are we missing a major problem because it doesn't exist? Other than catalyst events? Which we notice, sure, but I wonder if we would if they weren't the only things breaking the peace and serenity of too many people and not enough space living in fear of the unknown? And now without indoor plumbing?"

Cas sits back with a thoughtful look. "That, yes."

"The teams we assign her--so far their job is to keep her from killing _herself_ ; they've never reported problems with the new residents during her town-wide tours, and she's doing them every day. Twice, sometimes, if there's a problem." He remembers that first tour with Alison, when Cas was hanging out with Crowley. Giving orders with the expectation of obedience, that was a little surprising, with Ichabod's mayor being more a settler of disputes between groups, but needs must, as Cas would say. Wading into the refugee centers without hesitation was stressing as hell for him, but Alison--wasn't stressed. Or not by them, anyway: _for_ them, hell yes, checking everything twice, sending volunteers running for more of this or that. "Cas, give me a history lesson: too many people, not enough space, in a strange place and driven here by a geas promoting fear. Hell, leave off the last part and just say 'fear, reasons'; is it just me or are we living in best case scenario? Like, the kind that just doesn't ever happen?"

"The lack of mobs has been something of a relief. I'm not terribly fond of them." Crossing his arms, Cas looks at him intently. "I know what you're asking, and I don't know."

"Millennia of psychics, and you don't know if she's--doing something?"

"Generally, strong psychics who both manage to survive and lack a desire to acquire power tend to prefer being somewhere that lacks people, like the peaks of very inaccessible mountains or the center of very vast deserts. Sometimes remote islands, provided they can find a boat or swim very well. Missouri and Pamela were both exceptions for many reasons. Which reminds me," he adds. "I should see if Missouri's house is still in a state to be examined. That would help a great deal." 

Dean looks his 'anytime now'.

"Just a thought for the future," Cas says dismissively. "Even the best shields have a certain amount of leakage, and she's tired; doubtless some amount is necessary to relieve a little of the pressure. If it was coercive, Teresa--and the earth--would have reacted. If I were guessing, she has a very calming influence. It's not often a leader means what they say, and her words as well as her actions match her intent, and for that matter, that her intent could be sensed, at least subconsciously."

"She told me she wasn't a people person," Dean says wryly, remembering Alison's haunted expression when relating her impulse to hug people to make them feel better. "It can't be helping, to hang out with that many people that close every day." Cas shakes his head, and yeah, that's what he thought. "But she does it anyway." She may even have to, even if she doesn't know why she's doing it. Because scared people become dangerous mobs very quickly, and if they use Alison's daily tour as a guide, maybe in under a day.

So their choices are 'sudden mobs', 'possible possession by Erica', 'the Misborn (who knows what)', and 'upwards of twenty thousand people with damaged minds', and now that he thinks about it, this isn't multiple choice, it's 'pick more than one or all of them, they could all happen'. There are no good choices here. Literally everything is working against them, and new things show up just in case they get a handle on the old ones (he's waiting for someone right now to knock, enter without waiting for permission, and throw in something else just on the principle of why not). He runs through it all again, looking for something, anything--and for fucking once, that actually works.

"Let's split the difference," he says, putting it together and leaving the gaps for Cas to tell him about. "Do nothing until critical; she's got a team with her already, we'll switch that to twenty-four/seven and give them a jeep with a full gas tank to chauffeur Alison on her visits around town. We'll talk to Christina and Sean--and Alison--and their orders are, when she tells them she's--whatever--they toss her in the jeep, hit the gas, and drive. Not like she wants Apocalypse: Alison either." Cas nods slowly; okay, so far so good. "I'll draw--or you will," he adds, scowling at his right hand, "the anti-possession symbol on Alison; it won't be all that strong, but it might be enough with four people in the jeep with her that have the permanent version. Micah's still Erica's priority; she's probably not gonna take a break to see if that symbol washes off with soap and scrubbing, and hey, whoever's driving, _don't fucking stop_ to find out. If Erica's already gone...."

Cas picks up his cue. "The Misborn."

"Hear me out. Just a few humans in a jeep compared to giant city of 'em: which is gonna win if they're that close?" Cas opens his mouth. "Cas, this is maybe; I get we're risking Alison, but we're also risking everyone in this town, and we're not getting best case here, so 'good enough' is gonna have to do it. We'll work on it if we have time, but we need something now to get us started."

"Both," Cas says discouragingly, but his expression is thoughtful. "However, the jeep won't be a stationary target, either. They might not even notice them, since their goal is the town itself." He brightens, which Dean kind of wishes didn't worry him. "And an ex-angel is very distracting; I can stand on the walls and wave."

Good enough, Dean reminds himself firmly; he can always knock Cas out and throw him in Sudha's room for babysitting. "Sounds good. Now, which one of us is gonna talk to Alison?"

Cas opens his mouth.

"Not it," Dean says smugly. "I wonder who's left?"

* * *

Joe and Cas are barely gone five minutes for their tour of Micah's new home (hopefully, that will put Cas in a better mood) when there's a knock at the door. "Come in."

The door opens enough for Sarah to look inside. "Dean? Do you have a few minutes?"

"Hey," he says, surprised. "Sure. Uh, Vera and Kamal are getting the team leaders together right now."

"The meeting is in twenty minutes," she says, opening the door fully and pausing on the threshold. "We're waiting for Christina and James to arrive."

"Then now's fine." As she steps inside, closing the door behind her, Dean reflects 'you send Sarah when you want to lie' makes sense when you realize she almost never changes expression; that kind of makes it hard to work out what this is about. "Uh, sit down," he says belatedly, dropping into the middle of the couch, and she selects the chair directly across from him. "What's going on?" Then, remembering Kat exists, "Any problems? More, I mean?"

"No new incidents," she answers immediately, giving him no time to feel relieved before saying, "I take responsibility for the spread of the information regarding Alicia's duties in Ichabod after the attack three weeks ago. I understand it might not be convenient for you to relieve me of duty now, but when we return to Chitaqua--"

"Wait." He takes a minute to get with the program. "Start over. What?" Then (this being Sarah), "Don't repeat what you just said: bullshit. I gotta know, though, how this is your fault."

"She's on my team and is my responsibility. I heard Kat and Carol talking with Kyle that night, as well as parts of their conversation over the course of the day," she answers coolly, face smooth.

"You heard them talking shit about Alicia?"

"About a large number of people, though not specifically that," she replies, and Dean files that away as 'probably will have to find out what else' though fuck if he want to. "Kat was acting--she seemed calmer," she says suddenly, lowering her eyes, and Dean wonders if it's personality or something else that keeps her so contained, that just seeing that tells him how much stress she's under. "She's always been an extrovert, and I assumed company was helping her. Under the circumstances, I didn't think to intercede or report it."

"Dude, we start trying to regulate people talking shit about each other--I don't even know how we'd do that. I sure as hell don't want to." While it might have pissed off him to overhear, he wouldn't have done anything, either. Or seen this coming, because normal people don't weaponized that shit for mass destruction. "She's grieving, she's pissed, she got a sympathetic audience, that's gonna happen."

"She's angry, yes, but she's also convinced herself that...I'm not sure how to explain it." A faint line appears between her eyebrows that Dean interprets as a frown; he may just be witnessing what Sarah looks like when she's really pissed. "She knows what happened, Dean, but she keeps--like when Cas told her that her request for a cabin for her and Andy was on hold due to lack of cabins. There are no others--you can count them--but she refused to believe it."

The closest Dean's come to literally throwing someone out of their cabin is when he came home to hear Cas dealing with that. "I remember."

"In retrospect, I shouldn't have recommended she be allowed Carol's company--or Kyle's," she continues with the barest edge in her voice: very, very pissed. "They encouraged her in her grievances, and while I acquit Kyle of malice though not stupidity, in Carol's case--I think it was deliberate."

Huh. "She's fucking with Kat's head on purpose?"

"If you mean that she deliberately took advantage of Kat's grief, yes," Sarah answers. "However, she wouldn't be able to if Kat didn't welcome it. Kat--I thought I knew her."

"Grief can fuck you up." It's the best he can do right now. "It makes people crazy."

"Yes, so I understand," she answers, looking at him intently. "It can make it difficult for someone to think clearly, leading to impulsive decisions they would not make under other circumstances." He nods warily. "Kat didn't have a hangover this morning, unlike Kyle and two others who were invited to join them for a few hours last night."

"Okay." He wonders how clearly he's thinking right now. "Her tolerance better?"

"Yes," she says. "Though Kyle's is almost as good, and the other two not far off. When I cleaned the room this morning, none of the empty bottles were Kat's drink of choice, but two thirds were Kyle's."

He straightens: how very not impulsive that is. "You don't say."

"Kat seemed better this morning when I checked on her before going on duty at dawn," Sarah says. "More like herself. When Joseph recalled me and told me what had happened this morning, I spoke to Kat and told her what happened in the mess. She expressed the appropriate amount of remorse for her actions, regretted the overindulgence last night that led to poor judgment, was shocked by Carol spreading it through the infirmary, and told me that she would like to apologize, both to you, Alicia, Dolores, and Alison, for the harm she inadvertently caused."

You send Sarah when you want to lie; he's gonna bet you also send her when someone's lying to you. "She went right down the checklist."

"I was impressed by her thorough sense of responsibility," Sarah agrees. "Then I asked how she knew what Carol said in the infirmary, since I hadn't mentioned it." The line appears again. "She then became overcome with grief. I ordered her confined to quarters and recalled my team to watch her."

Dean bites back a suggestion of where they can put Kat (outside the fucking wall). That would (probably) be an overreaction. "Good call."

"Regarding Kyle's part in this.... I think he can be acquitted of knowingly assisting Kat and Carol; he thought he was speaking to a friend, and I doubt Kat told him that at that moment he wasn't." Sarah hesitates for a moment before meeting his eyes. "I haven't spoken to the other team leaders on the subject, but the nature of the confidence that Kyle disclosed concerns us all."

He keeps his expression interested, but Christ. "How?" 

"Alicia's actions were performed in the line of duty; Kat and Kyle used that against her, but they shouldn't have thought they could nor should they have been able to. The blame must also rest on those who upon hearing it not only spread it further, but presumed to sit in judgement on her for doing her duty." Minutely, her jaw tightens. "That anyone from Chitaqua would do that was...unexpected. And unwelcome."

Relieved, he nods; he thinks he may know what's going on. "I don't think they thought any farther than 'kids'," he offers, wondering how many of them may have lost their own kids. Mike can't be the only one, and he doubts that the only family who died in Erica's basement were adults. Cas said it himself: nothing more horrifying than a Croat kid and knowing you have to kill them, and Carol's (genuine) question got him thinking on that.

It's probably pretty comforting to think there are things you'd never do (he knows all about that) or even that you couldn't. If Alicia did it, though--someone they know, someone like them--either they're wrong about that, or (comforting, remember) something's wrong with her, maybe she likes it, could be anything. Because fuck knows, liking a job is the only way anyone would ever do it; if that's not true, they may have to do shit they don't like, they aren't okay with, that may give them nightmares, but has to be done anyway, and can't fucking have that. 

"There's a reason the executioner always wears a hood." He shakes his head when Sarah tilts her head curiously. "Drew and Phil are with Kat?"

"Yes."

"Do I need to ask how she took that?"

"Predictably," Sarah answers, which Dean takes to mean 'lots of crying and saying the shittiest things she can think of' (she's a goddamn genius at that). "Phil and Drew share my feelings on this. We'll assure she doesn't take any further negative action."

"Shit job," he says honestly. "I'll talk to Cas about who can help you out; no one should have to deal with that full time." Yesterday, he didn't have anyone confined anywhere; today, he's gonna have three people and one in an actual cell under guard. "Not your fault, Sarah. Resignation refused, and we'll talk more when we get back to Chitaqua."

She nods as she gets to her feet. "Thank you."

* * *

"It's secure," Cas says after he and Joe return, seemingly soothed by imagining Micah in there. "And sufficiently bleak as well. I sent a team to acquire a table and several chairs as well as to install a lock on the door. I'm trying to remember if Ichabod has any recording devices we could use. The laptops are equipped with webcams, but that isn't terribly subtle."

"Not that I don't approve," Dean starts, because he may not know the reason, but if Cas wants to do it, he approves (barring one on one's with Hellhounds, of course), "but why?"

"For one, because we don't have a giant unsubtle window to watch him," Joe retorts from his lounge in a frayed armchair. "That means we're restricted to eyes and ears in the room, and Dean, my hand hurts. Let record and make it easy on ourselves."

"For another, the person who knows him best and is most likely to get him to talk is also the one that shouldn't be in that room," Cas adds, seating himself in the corner of the couch by Dean and by dint of sheer Cas-ness doesn't immediately start to sink (though tucking a leg underneath him probably helps, yeah). "Recordings are an excellent substitute.

"I was thinking that," Joe admits. "Wonder if we have the same reasons."

"If Alicia could get anything out of him...." Dean starts, not liking himself for even thinking it, not if he's right, and honestly, he hopes he's not.

"Micah wants her there," Cas says.

Joe nods. "That'd be it."

Dean considers. "He only asked for her once."

"He asked for his _wife_ ," Joe clarifies. Dean looks his 'I just said that' and Joe sighs noisily. "Remember what I said about marriage assuming certain things? Like with me and Monica?" He nods. "Dean, I didn't talk out with Monica exactly what she wanted, when, and how just for the times when she couldn't speak for herself; a third of the time, they'd look to me to answer questions first even if she was right there. I had to be ready to support whatever she said like I knew what I was talking about, because they thought I knew more than her."

"So he thought that's all he needed to say."

"Yeah," Joe says. "Micah's script was a little out of date, but with you--just two guys, about the same age--he didn't think he had to work for it. He's assuming the question you're asking yourself is 'is there any good reason not to reunite this married couple', especially now that he's coming to Headquarters, though how he missed your transparent lack of fucks is a mystery but not much of one. Trust me, as Monica's ex-husband who watched this shit go down way too many times, that was both noticeable and refreshing. So yes, he expects to see her, and Dean, may be just me here, but I think it's a little weird that one, he wants to see the woman who put a knife in his thigh to get rid of him--

"I forgot to ask--does he have a limp?" Cas interrupts curiously. 

"We'll know when Amanda brings him back," Dean says. "Watch him perp walk through reception."

"--and two--related to one--why the fuck he didn't even bother complaining about it. Sure, none of us would have taken it seriously because fuck him, but he's a lawyer, so why not accuse one of your lieutenants of attempted murder?" Something flickers across his face, there and gone, but meeting his eyes, Dean nods slightly; they're both thinking about that. "I seriously doubt it's for reminiscing on the good times or reconciliation."

"He wants her to do something." Dean tries to think of circumstances under which Alicia would do something other than maybe stab him again and get it right this time. "Or not do something, maybe."

"Or just create more confusion," Joe agrees. "Basically, I can't think of a single good reason he wants to see her, and it might tell us something when he realizes we're not gonna let him."

"This is gonna be fun," Dean says glumly. "So interrogators--"

"I should go do--something ," Joe says immediately, making a face at Dean. "Anything you need? Technically, I'm officer on duty."

"Haruhi and Rosario should be assigned to the infirmary," Cas answers. "If Carol has any more revelations about anyone from Chitaqua that she feels the need to share, I'd like to know about it."

"Kind of wonder why she didn't tell more," Joe admits as he stands up. "Not like she'd have any reason to confine herself to the truth, so lots of material."

"Yeah," Dean agrees, rolling his eyes at Joe's sloppy salute on his way out of the door. "So I gotta pick interrogators."

"I would volunteer," Cas says slowly, like he's trying to find even a shitty euphemism and there's just not one, "but my skillsets are...."

"I know," Dean assures him, pissed all over again for new and exciting reasons; Cas would actually be really _good_ at questioning people. Half the job is appearance and attitude, and that blank stare alone is a whole other skill. The ex-angel thing might really work for this, too; terrifying suspects isn't a drawback, and honestly, Cas's people skills are better than some of the police and FBI agents Dean's met who did it professionally. But no: Dean goddamn Winchester got an angel and taught him all the skillsets to be the best creepy Henchman #1 ever to exist. "I'm still working on the fact I'm ordering someone interrogated," he retorts. "And if you say anything about demons--"

"I wasn't going to," Cas says mildly. "But if it would help, I will, so we can argue about it, though I will need you to tell me which side I should take."

He turns sideways to try a glare, which makes Cas bite his lip on a smile. "Okay, what?"

"I was just thinking," he answers. "I've never had make-up sex. If we are to die tomorrow, a fight now--assuming we were quick about it--would assure I could cross that off my bucket list in the next three hours. Which side should I take?"

Dean contemplates how you pick up a skillset that includes conversationally relevant sex jokes. "Everything I do," he hears himself say, "I'm saying that it's okay to do this or it's not. Dude, this didn't go well when it was just _Sam_ doing the mini-me before he grew up and figured out I was...." He searches for the right word. "Me."

Cas stares at him for just long enough for Dean to understand he thinks he's an idiot. "I'm going to guess this is you worrying that you're doing or going to do something terrible that will set a precedent that will eventually lead to horrors untold."

"You'd think so," he answers; what are the things he _couldn't_ do? That's becoming a very short list, and he has a feeling it's only going to get shorter from here on out. "Rosario."

"What?"

"You were telling me about Rosario and Haruhi and--" He shrugs. "Look, I don't know."

"Why I picked Rosario." Cas turns to settle in the corner, drawing up his other leg, and impulsively, Dean tugs it across his lap and earns himself a surprised smile. Curving a hand below Cas's knee, he leans his head against his other hand and waits. "The first class at Chitaqua that I instructed, I taught with Dean's assistance," he says. "The second one was the first I taught alone. I told you that was the first enjoyed teaching, but it would be fair to say it was also the first that I wasn't a terrible instructor."

"Is this where you blame yourself for teaching Assassination 101 or--"

"This is far more mundane, I assure you," Cas replies. "You said you noticed Haruhi. She's extraordinary; natural talent in a variety of skills allied with experience, drive, and a highly competent instructor. Time and experience will only make her better. She can't not be."

Dean nods. "Not everyone can be Haruhi, I get that."

"I did the same thing," he says. "When I trained the first class at Chitaqua, I noticed the best--Erica, Stanley, Terry, Cynthia, Luke--"

"Christ," Dean interjects, because of course Cas's best students in that first class were his future killers. Like, could it happen any other way?

"--Ray, Melanie, Sarah, and Risa," he continues. "And the worst, of course, since my duty was to see they weren't killed seconds after stepping off the training field. I evaluated their strengths and weaknesses for a week, then tailored their education to that. Those who were very good, I focused on their strengths and assured competence in all else; for those--not--I emphasized mitigating their weaknesses. Those between had neither the benefit of my very questionably positive or negative attention--probably a relief, in retrospect. I suspect they worked very hard and achieved competence on the hope of avoiding just that."

Dean lets Cas see that he's mentally reviewing the definition of 'competent' as it applies to Chitaqua, which is pretty much its own standard. "Yeah, I got nothing. It worked, in case you're curious."

"Of course it worked; the curriculum was designed to work," he answers impatiently, like Dean is just doing this to annoy him. "It worked very well, especially in teaching three quarters of the class that they would never be anything more than competent in anything they ever did so why try. Or they were the sum of their weakest skill, I'm not sure.

"The second class was different." He smiles faintly. "Vera hated something called PE class and it was a literal effort to make her do laps. I have to have Amanda _chase_ her, and her reaction to firearms was bafflement, which is why checked they were empty before letting her touch them." He shakes his head at the weirdness of humanity (Dean's with him there). "Then there was Amanda. She was so good, Dean, and she had no idea because she compared herself against Debra, who was--herself. It probably didn't help she coveted Debra's lover, no."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Jesus, if _you_ could tell back then...."

"It was very unsettling," he answers, frowning. "Pornography led to me to believe this would eventually result in a rage-fueled erotic public threesome in mud--I even checked regularly for rain--"

"How much was Bobby drinking when you discovered the Penthouse Channel?" Dean demands; 'a lot', on a guess, would be an understatement.

"I transmuted it into single malt-flavored water when needed," he answers dismissively. "This was nothing like that. Imagine two vaguely human-shaped wolverines who pretended to be friends until either they were holding weapons or my back was turned. And I had to be clean and sober for all of it, every day," he adds incredulously, like he can't figure out he managed.

"And Vera...."

"Pretended--badly--that it wasn't happening; if only all of us could have been so fortunate," he says resentfully. "Though you could predict whether Debra had slept on the couch or not the night before by who started the first fight the next morning, I discovered. My first class was focused, determined--"

"Really goddamn crazy." You don't get that kind of per capita assassin number from run of the mill crazy; this is special edition shit.

"That goes without saying," he agrees. "Relentless in acquiring the needed skills, and probably utterly terrified of me while harboring growing resentment that I treated them like interchangeable human-shaped parts, and not--well, Joseph, for example. He wasn't lying about being in the Israeli army, but I still suspect that was some sort of implanted memory by means and for reasons unknown; Kamal and Jody would be fine before some exercise reminded them of competitive rollerblading and argued the point--hint, far too often, if only demons came with attached wheels--James and Christina were very earnest and obeyed every order to the letter, which you would think would be a relief but wasn't because left to their own devices on what to do without me to tell them, they'd do nothing at all. And that's before Zack seduced Nate--after Sean seduced him, in case this requires context--and the only reason I didn't need to watch for Sean and Nate to kill each other is that no matter how hard Sean tried to bait him, Nate genuinely didn't care. Amanda and Debra would sometimes pause their rampant very non-erotically charged hostility to shout them into submission as well, of course."

Dean realizing he's grinning. "And the rest?"

"Lee was focused and determined, but silently so; it was two weeks into training before I ever heard his voice--excellent baritone, perfect pitch, in case you're curious; Ana was ridiculously competent, being a Marine, but didn't seem to care what it was she was doing or even why; Mira was quiet from intimidation and a dislike of conflict and possessed the inexplicable ability to actually shrink in size if you made the mistake of trying to look at her directly; Penn whistled off-key always, but constantly when she was nervous, which was every moment on the training field; and Matt and Lena were obedient without being at all earnest and often not nearly as subtle in the use of sarcasm as they thought they were and made no attempt whatsoever to do it quietly. Then there was Mark, who was almost as good as Amanda and seemed to be content to do everything she could but not quite as well."

"And Debra?"

"Resented being in training with those of less skill, resented me for making her--Dean was excluded from blame, of course--resented Amanda for reasons already covered, and found everyone's lack of professionalism unacceptable and took valuable time from resenting everything else to tell us all about it. She also disliked me personally, and disliked me even more because I didn't particularly care."

"Kamal told me first day you told them they were boring," Dean tells him, grin widening at Cas's low laugh. "What did Vera say to you anyway?"

"The word 'fuck' featured prominently in every possible iteration and anywhere she could make it fit," he admits. "And I _was_ bored, up until that moment. The best--Amanda, Mark, Debra--and the worst--Joe, Vera--were identified, the rest would be fine...but Mira's unaccountable need to apologize when she made a mistake was like vocal sandpaper, by the tenth day, I wanted to stab Lee just to see if he had a voice at all or this was a case of mutism at which time I'd apologize, while Matt and Lena stood in actual daily danger of being forcibly muted and it's not as if I didn't have a variety of gags."

Dean has to takes a moment (not for the gag thing, he hasn't seen the collection yet, but of course Cas has one, probably in the utility-library-closet) to visualize non-erotically-charged muddy combat on one side of the field, Sean failing to beat up an indifferent Nate on the other, Jody and Kamal arguing about Nike versus Reebok (versus Adidas, if he remembers right), two wisecrackers commenting on everything while Vera and Zack tried to pretend they weren't part of two separate love triangles and the rest being--themselves. While Cas dealt with a cross-section of humanity at its most freakish that he was supposed to teach how to save the world or at least not get killed trying to do it.

"And then they saw one of their classmates executed for Croatoan after a mission, and spent a day watching their instructor and another classmate unsubtly being stalked to their potential death," he finishes tonelessly, and Dean's smile fades. "It had something of a sobering effect."

He squeezes Cas's knee reassuringly; there's more than one reason Cas had to be stoned out of his mind to talk about it the first time. Micah's version told him a lot, including why Cas couldn't have done it any other way.

"Boring," Cas says unexpectedly. "They listened closely, followed instruction, worked hard and consistently--it was maddening. Despite my policy against sex with current students, it was unbearably tempting to seduce Zack--Lee actually did, possibly just to see what the fuss was about, and I must admit I was curious as well--and see if that would help."

"They were scared," Dean offers; there's a difference when what you're scared of is behind the walls that protect you from what scares you outside them. "How long did it take them to get over it?"

"About a week," he answers. "It was all almost-competence and focused attention and low-grade depression for all, like a desaturated training montage set to funeral music-- _Stairway to Heaven_ , perhaps, or Garth Brooks' _The Dance_ ," he muses. "Which according to a very reputable website was commissioned by funeral directors to increase business in conjunction with the CIA and spread via mind control."

"They might have been onto something there." There's no good explanation for how that song--for almost a decade--seemed to be playing or about to play no matter what station the radio was on, including the times he's pretty sure the radio was supposed to be off. Dean's not completely divorced from the musical revolutions of the late eighties and early nineties--if nothing else, the number of people wearing flannel was hard to miss, and hot girls suddenly started going for the 'haven't showered in days' thing (not that he's complaining), and then the horrifying discovery that line dancing wasn't a new and weird form of evil (at least, not supernatural, or so he was told)--but there's that and then there's how it (inevitably) came on the radio after a (shitty) hunt, at which time he (didn't) cry (sob) over the wheel of the Impala because he imagined Mom dancing with Dad in the kitchen (pregnant with Sam, of course), _fuck that goddamn song_. "Or a geas," he says in dawning realization. He's gotta ask Teresa about that.

Cas nods thoughtfully; yeah, they're definitely gonna look into it. "Vera and I were waiting for them, as usual, and when everyone arrived, they grimly warmed up in monotonously depressing formation, we briefly reviewed the relevant lessons from the day before, and...." He makes a face. "Penn started to whistle, Mira apologized for something, and they started acting like themselves and not--whatever they were doing."

Like Cas said: even horror can become mundane, and you learn to live with it. Fear's not any different; you can only be terrified for so long before something has to give. You learn to live with it; it's hard, yeah, but it helps when you know everyone around you is doing the same damn thing.

"In any case, I knew them. Vera has extremely steady hands--no surprise there--and superlative eyesight and precision; Joseph's height and physical strength was best suited to blunt instruments and more--and larger--weapons than most people could easily lift and carry; Kamal and Jody's rollerblading proclivities had given them superlative reflexes--I was surprised." Cas starts to smile again. "Then there was Alicia."

Dean fights not to straighten. "Alicia--wait, that was during two months of extracurricular hunter playtime, right?"

"That's exactly what it was in retrospect. As you're aware, there's not much to do in Chitaqua, and since everyone had to keep in training anyway, the evening sessions at least offered variety. Which is why--I think--that not just the second class attended them. Amanda learned how to teach people who already knew the curriculum but would like the refresher, and I taught other things that weren't covered in class or not covered so thoroughly."

"Let me guess--knife fighting."

"It wasn't popular--humans generally prefer guns, and they are a vast improvement over the slingshot--but Amanda wasn't used to being....let's say 'not good' at something. A gun person," he adds thoughtfully, nodding. "I see what Alicia meant. In any case, Amanda didn't have a natural aptitude for bladework, it felt awkward to her, so she didn't like it. Before, I would have left it once she achieved competence--and it must be said, she was still better than the rest of the class--but she wouldn't even attempt to improve. I told her she was acting like a child, she would argue with me--"

"Joan really was living the dream," Dean mutters, remembering what Joe told him about her regular attendance at hunter playtime.

Cas tilts his head. "What?"

"Nothing." Everyone else got drama and tragedy, but Joan got Your Life Is Insanely Hot Apocalyptic Porn; what the hell? "Keep going."

Cas's eyes narrow suspiciously before settling again. "So I started her on knife dances--those only fit for a child--so she'd be forced to learn the movements and advance, from sheer boredom if nothing else. About a week after we began, I noticed that Alicia was watching and realized she might have been since we started. For the next week, every night, she would excuse herself from whatever she was working on and very subtly observe us. I was impressed."

"And then she asked to play?"

He shakes his head. "Amanda unconvincingly turned her ankle during the second of the intermediate dances due to frustration and insisted on taking a break, so I invited Alicia to join us. I wasn't sure she would do so, but she did, and I gave her the knife--a wooden practice blade--and asked her if she wanted to try."

That'd be almost three months after that night at the cabin. "And what happened?"

"Before I could clarify I'd demonstrate--and that I meant the first beginner dance--Alicia reproduced the entire sequence that Amanda had just failed to perform at full speed without flaw," Cas says, mouth quirking. "To say I was surprised would be an understatement."

Despite himself, he grins. "I bet."

"I asked her if she wanted to try the other dances I'd taught Amanda from the first. She proceeded to perform all of them from the simplest beginner sequences--there are seven--and the first three of the intermediate without a single flaw. The fourth intermediate was the first one she had trouble with, but it wasn't in knowledge; her speed and reflexes weren't yet sufficient for the more intricate movements."

"Without a demo?" Cas nods. "How?"

"The first question I asked when I told her to stand down--generally, doing eleven dances back to back isn't recommended for your first time on the field, but she didn't seem to realize she was about to collapse," Cas answers. "She said she'd been watching us."

He's seen a few of those between Cas and Amanda, and he's not sure he could remember the first goddamn move. "Seriously?"

"Knife dances aren't literally dances," he says. "At least, I didn't think of them as such, not until I saw Alicia perform them. She said something about cheerleading and winning state competition three years in a row, it was--I have no idea, but from what I could gather, that isn't a sport in which weapons are involved but does require a great deal of choreography and dance training."

Dean tries and fails to remember much about cheerleaders other than vague memories of six high schools of football season and the Laker Girls. Hot girls in short skirts: he wasn't exactly up to examining what they were doing _while_ being hot back then. "Cheerleading. Teaches you knife dancing."

"I need to find a recording of a half-time show for a major league or college football game," he muses. "Alicia assured me if you think of the pom-poms as small and very specialized whips, we could learn a great deal from the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders."

Dean just nods; how did Chitaqua _get_ these people? Something in the air?

"Knife dances aren't meant for combat themselves, obviously; they're an exhibition of skill, and their major use in training is to teach the movements and build muscle memory until they become reflexive," Cas continues. "Usually, the transition is difficult for students, even extraordinary ones, but Alicia grasped the connection almost immediately. Once she knew the whole, she could pick out the individual parts of each dance and assemble them with very little effort when she started translating it to combat.

"Watching Alicia work, I realized she had extraordinary body awareness, like Mira, and as it turns out, she was instructed from a very young age in classical ballet and several contemporary forms of dance as well as gymnastics. Apparently, that's standard for competitive cheerleaders who wish to win state, whatever that is. Her spatial awareness was even better; she always knew where everyone was, which is how cheerleaders don't kill each other during dangerously intricate routines, or so Alicia explained."

"The more you know."

"We should canvass for more cheerleaders," Cas says seriously. "She told me she was choreographer for her squad from her sophomore year, so memorizing performances and picking out the individual parts-- _recognizing_ them at all--was second nature. She also told me all the dances had a time signature, so she just followed the beat. I had Amanda teach her unarmed combat again, but from a performance perspective; she learned routines, set them to a beat, then took them apart to use as needed when fighting."

More and more, Dean sees the teacher in Cas, the guy who really _likes_ teaching, and hates this Dean a little more for fucking that up, too, before Cas even got a chance to realize it. He's gonna get that back, Dean decides; time, students, whatever he needs, but it's gonna happen. "I saw Alicia almost kick a Croat's head off. I mean literally here, it was barely hanging on by some skin when it went down. You're telling me she learned that from _dancing_?"

"She must have been tired," Cas says in amusement. "Or in a hurry, since I assume that was during your adventures outside the walls." Dean rubs a slow circle against the side of Cas's knee. "What a student can do _now_ is obvious, but what they _could_ is impossible to know in full, and that's very easy to overlook. I certainly missed it with Alicia."

Huh. "That's why you picked Rosario? Something Amanda overlooked?"

"Not exactly. I picked three, but Rosario was the one that surprised Amanda. She placed well outside even Amanda's 'maybe' list before evaluations."

"But?" Dean prompts, because he knows there's a 'but'.

"She didn't give up." Cas frowns at the knee of his jeans. "She was at every training Amanda gave in Ichabod before that day and showed up for evaluation despite being very aware she wasn't at the standard of more than twenty of the other potential recruits. It was obvious from the moment she stepped on the practice field and she had to know it. She did almost everything wrong in every exercise, though it probably didn't help that both Amanda and Mark were terrible at pretending I wasn't there to observe them."

"But she didn't walk."

"She didn't walk, and many better than her did," Cas confirms. "She finished the last exercise of the day and waited to hear the results with the others. Amanda's observations of her at the earlier sessions seemed to indicate she has no idea what 'giving up' is or how to do it. Teresa concurred and later told me a terrifyingly heartwarming story of how two weeks after Rosario arrived in Ichabod, they were attacked, and Rosario--who'd never used a gun--was found in the street with a rifle she didn't know how to use, missing every shot and turning it to use as a bludgeon when she ran out of bullets. Which is exactly what she did. She stood there and _beat_ some sort of clawed, furry reptile to death--Teresa said it looked like the offspring of a seps and a Siamese cat, which both intrigues and revolts me in equal measure--with the butt of her rifle."

Jesus Christ. "Why was she alone in the middle of the street shooting monsters? Where was patrol?"

"Fighting off the rest of them south of town," he answers. "A few got away and wandered onto Main Street. Teresa--who was the one who dragged her to safety, much against Rosario's will--asked her why she didn't stay inside like anyone sane or--if she must shoot at it--why on earth she didn't at least go back to safety after she ran out of bullets," he continues, exasperation creeping into his voice that Dean bets was in Teresa's when she was telling him about it. "Her answer was it hadn't occurred to her to do that; the daycare needed defending, there was no one else to do it, and she could still beat it with her empty rifle to buy patrol more time to get there. Teresa won't discuss the other times--"

"Other times?" Dean echoes. "How often does Miss Take It Old School do this?"

"Teresa won't talk about it without alcohol, and a lot of it," he answers. "After hearing that, Amanda and I decided to wait until we all had time for the inevitable hangover."

"I wonder what she'd do when a Hellhound comes running at her?" Dean muses, not at all pointedly.

"Haruhi promised me that wouldn't happen," he mutters, giving Dean a dirty look. "No one had to teach Rosario to throw herself between danger and people who need protection; she just does it, and that kind of habit is impossible to eradicate, though Teresa apparently did try. She is an exceedingly vulnerable mountain; we must teach the mountain to be less vulnerable, for it will not move. If that is her greatest strength, it certainly isn't one to be despised. So yes, Rosario's progress is slow, but it doesn't stop, because she continues to work past tiredness and common sense, sometimes even while covered in paint."

"That's why Haruhi needed the paint," Dean says, enlightened. "I really want to see the pics, by the way."

"They're hilarious," Cas assures him with a grin. "Rosario's somewhat discouraged by the progress of her classmates compared to her own, but despite that, she still continues to work. If Amanda is correct about Rosario's skill with knives, Alicia's supplemental instruction with her give her more confidence. When training is complete, Amanda will have reason to be proud of what she's accomplished with her first class. Haruhi would be good without her, and with her will be extraordinary, but Rosario will be good because her instructor saw what she wanted to become and worked with her to achieve it." Cas focuses on the knee of his jeans again. "I think Rosario will be surprised to discover what she's capable of doing when assisted by someone who believes in her."

Dean stares at him for a minute, then shoves forward, catching himself on the armrest and kissing the surprised bow of Cas's mouth. There's never a bad reason to kiss Cas, but damned if this isn't one of the best ones. When he draws back for a breath, Cas smiles at him, thumb sliding along Dean's jaw. 

"I can't imagine," Cas whispers, blue eyes warm, "who taught me that."

Before Dean can answer (not with words, obviously), the sharp knock on the door is almost immediately followed by Joe's head and a scowl. "Cas--really, Dean? In the Situation Room?"

"Now you know to wait for permission to come in," Dean retorts, dropping back on the couch. Running a hand over his face, he closes his eyes at the realization he may actually have made Joe wait a while, because his priorities right now are kind of--Cas. "Is this important?"

"Kind of, yeah." Joe gives the couch a suspicious look before focusing on Cas. "Amanda's about to go pick up our unwanted stray, wants to know if you have any last minute instructions?"

Cas makes a face. "I suppose, yes. I should also go speak to Alison at Admin regarding any recording devices they may have in inventory." Dean nods; recording devices and also relating the 'good enough' plan to Alison. If they're lucky, she may have something better; they're not, so he doesn't even bother with hope.

"Check on Christina's team while you're at it," he says--might as well get that part out of the way--before reluctantly getting up. Extending a hand to Cas, he ignores Joe rolling his eyes in favor of Cas's smile as he tugs him to his feet and walks him to the door. Leaning against the doorframe, he grins at them both. "Have fun. Be back in time for Micah's perp walk; you're not gonna want to miss it."

After watching them disappear into the next room, he starts to go back inside (interrogators, gotta pick some, fuck his life) when a deliberate movement to his left gets his attention. Turning, he sees Alicia sitting cross-legged against the far wall and watching him thoughtfully, like it's perfectly normal. This is Alicia; for her, normal is kind of...yeah, no idea.

"Everything okay?" he asks as he starts toward her, then for form's sake, asks, "Were you listening at the door?"

"If I could hear anything, of course," she answers with a frown, tipping her head back. "But the acoustics are designed to discourage that, I think. You think they did lawyer meetings with human sacrifice in there?"

"You feel it, too." Without thinking, he extends a hand, and she takes it and lets him pull her to her feet. "You need anything?"

"I do," she answers, nodding solemnly, and he sees the Micah notebook tucked under her arm. "I need to tell you that I lied."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: description of events surrounding the death of kids under the age of three due to Croatoan. It's in the first section after discussion of Carol's condition and referred to explicitly in the second section.
> 
> Edited to add further note:
> 
> If you aren't aware of the sport of competitive cheerleading, context--I was a (regular) high school cheerleader for a 1A school where the only requirement was the ability to shout loudly and maybe do a round-off. However, when you wear the short skirt and carry the pom-poms, you research the ways of your newfound people, much like a munchkin cat feels kinship with a tiger who kills for pleasure. Competitive cheerleaders are if gymnastics was a contact sport like really graceful football without a ball and no other team to interfere with the bloodshed, that's my best explanation; when I used to observe, the dance portion was the part that tricked you, like a cobra moving its head hypnotically before the kill. I remember watching--and hearing from other, not-competitive cheerleaders like me lost in awe and envy and rampant inadequacy because _seriously_?--squads of twelve to sixteen frighteningly focused girls with twice your muscle mass who could contort into any position and did multiple layouts like this ended with them killing you before smoothly moving into different multi-person gravity-defying formations to a beat, no fucks given (male cheerleaders often had the look of people who no longer feared anything). It was great, and yes, they could easily kick you head off while wearing bells on their Reeboks (you died to discordant chiming). Smiling the entire time. 
> 
> Anyone who did competitive cheerleading, feel free to weigh in; you were my junior high and high school idols.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, I left the last three chapters uncut, but I have about two or three more months of dental visits, antibiotics, and blessed painkillers, so I can only edit incrementally. It seemed smarter to cut the chapters shorter so I can finish editing in smaller groups than fail at editing superlong chapters even though yes, it is bothering me because the pacing feels off to me now (and I may ask about that after this book is finished to see what people think). 
> 
> The only comfort I'm getting from this is that doing all this in a short time is I don't have time for anticipatory dread of the dentist but mostly in the resigned stage. Though, I'm starting to wonder if I really want teeth after all. Like, what do I need them for?
> 
> Please see warnings at the end if you have any triggers and have emailed me regarding them.

_\--Day 157, continued--_

Unsurprisingly, Alison has returned to her office at Admin, likely at Teresa's instigation. Looking at her now, he wishes that he'd been paying closer attention over the last two days. Unobserved, the deceptive energy Alison displayed earlier is stripped away, the strain of the last week painfully clear. Despite the open laptop on the desk and several stacks of paper surrounding her, her eyes are fixed in the middle distance, and he suspects that's not because she's engaged in long-distance communication.

Knocking on the open door, he waits for her to look at him before asking, "May I come in?"

The transformation is instantaneous, energy returning with an extra helping of annoyance; he can see why Dean calls her the Executive Secretary of the Apocalypse. The glasses are very discomfiting, especially when she looks at him over the bent rim. "Come in, of course."

"I planned to in any case, but thank you for permission," he answers her, closing the door and turning the lock, secure in the knowledge that Christina will redirect anyone who requests Alison's attention unless it's urgent (if it's urgent, Alison will know, in any case). Leaning over the desk, he turns the laptop so he can screen (inventory), clicks on save, waits to assure it does so, then closes the lid before sitting down.

Alison blinks at it slowly. "I was doing something."

"You have no idea what, however." Her eyes narrow. "How are you feeling?"

"Wonderful," she answers with syrupy sweetness. "Rocks are falling in slow motion, everyone's gonna die. How, who can tell? That part's still up in the air, but there are a lot of contenders." The hazel eyes flicker away. "So--"

"We need cameras," Castiel interrupts. "Joseph's hand hurts."

"Context: talk with Micah, got it." She frowns into the middle distance, then nods. "Walter says we have some that might work; give him about an hour to find them and bring them by...."

"Here is fine."

She frowns, there and then gone. "Walter says 'can do'. Apparently," she adds with a faint smile, "they're for indoor use only and he couldn't figure out how to make them work on the square. Uh--okay, a TV in inventory might work so you can watch the feed live: he'll check with Lanak and bring that, too."

"Thank you." 

She nods, eyes fixed on her desk, but he doesn't miss the quick intake of breath. "Cas, look--"

"I did as you requested," he interrupts. "Perhaps I should show you, however." Sliding the his chair closer, he leans across the desk, taking her limp hand and turning it over, lacing their fingers together. He still has to be careful, of course, but with Alison, only the simplest precautions are necessary to protect her from the infinite mind of an angel, especially with a memory from a mortal perspective; in a matter of seconds, he relates the relevant portion of the meeting after she left and stops before reaching his private conversation with Dean, watching in interest as her expression go from resigned to bewildered to--

"What. The. Hell?" she demands as she examines it again; her memory isn't eidetic, but there are benefits to receiving a carefully contained memory from a former angel. "You...."

"I told them the truth," he answers, settling back in the chair again. "That is what I was supposed to do, correct?"

She glares at him. "Here's the story of the evil psychic that very nearly ended humanity's existence but let me tell you also how none of this is relevant because free will?"

"Essentially, yes."

"And tool metaphors," she continues in bafflement. "Holy shit, you got Alicia and Joe in on it? What the hell just happened?"

"Alison, I understand the pleasures to be found in assuming the worst of yourself--my experience with dreaming has been traumatically educational on that point--but without a very dramatic change in personality--such as being literally possessed by a demon--you are in no danger of becoming a sadistic psychopath with megalomaniacal tendencies who destroys the world. Other horrifying possibilities, yes, but that--no."

She stares at him blankly. "That's supposed to be better?"

"Yes," he answers honestly. "You didn't see his mind; I did. Anything you may become--and I do mean anything--is better than that."

She shudders. "Okay, give you that one."

"It also helps that you don't want to be a monster," he continues, trying and failing to suppress irritation. "Despite what you may think, otherwise normal people accidentally embracing evil while of sound mind are actually exceedingly rare, and those continuing haplessly upon that path, will they nil they, almost non-existent; actually, I can't think of a single one in all of history."

"Uh--"

"It doesn't happen," he clarifies, in case this isn't as obvious as he feels it should be. "Ever."

"I get it, but--"

'But': there always is one. "Committing yourself to evil as a career path isn't easy," he starts (again). Hope springs eternal, after all, and while humans still offer up bodily fluids (Dean) and their minds (Alison) at random to anyone who might ask (or more importantly, when they don't and have no intention of doing so), perhaps he'll have better luck with this. "Don't misunderstand: despite what you may think, evil takes _work_ , that work is generally unpleasant as well as boring unless you have a taste for that kind of thing and you don't, it's very thin of non-minion company--they're generally stupid, in case that's not obvious--and it's not nearly as enjoyable as you might assume; see points one through three. The only thing that makes it worth it is the eventual goal--conquest, riches, power, a particularly attractive courtesan, concubine, or heiress--and you don't even have one of those. For that matter, Teresa is both beautiful and powerful, no one has money anymore, and if you want the infected zone, I seriously doubt anyone would care, but Alison, you are no general. An administrator, yes, but please don't try conquest; it would be embarrassing for us both when I brought you to battle, and you would lose, probably in under ten minutes."

Alison blinks once to show she's listening: excellent.

"To continue: you have no nefarious goals nor do you show any sign of acquiring any that can't be reached by less personally reprehensible--and far less miserable--means. It's not impossible, but--you and Dean," he interrupts himself. "What part of this doesn't make sense? You both carry on as if not carefully watched, you'll abruptly pillage the world in an orgy of unexpected villainy no one could see coming; one, the way you both warn us of it constantly contradicts the 'unexpected' and 'not see coming' and two, _what is wrong with you_?"

Alison leans back in her chair. "Long day?"

"Long week," he answers shortly, slumping in his chair. "Why do you make this so complicated? It's simple; a five year old manages it without any effort whatsoever."

"Simple but not easy," she retorts. "How not to be a monster, by Castiel of Chitaqua. Really helps, by the way, have I mentioned that?"

"That's two thirds--perhaps three quarters of it," he agrees in determined patience. "Nothing happens in a vacuum; the rest is the world and those around you, and they must do their part as well. The world we have no control over, but your family and friends--those you choose to surround yourself with, who willingly offer their support and you accept it--will do the rest."

Her frown deepens. "I have no idea what that means."

"Perhaps you could consider the possibility that it might be difficult for you to embark on a path of wholesale evil while sharing a bed with Teresa, a house with Manuel, Sudha, and Neeraja, and living a street away from Tony, Claudia, and Dolores. Unless I mistake them--and I don't--they won't react with resigned horror to your not at all inevitable slide into darkness but will probably knock you out--Dolores will help--until you stop acting like an idiot." She winces. "If you like someone and they're about to do something you know is stupid, you try to talk them out of it, but if you love them, you can also punch them in the face."

"Punch them in the face?"

"Yes. From my observations, none of them would hesitate to do just that if required, and no one wants a broken nose in addition to reproaches from all who care for you. That would hurt on multiple levels and there's a dearth of competent plastic surgeons in the infected zone if your septum became unfortunately deviated."

Her eyebrows jump. "Who told you that? Not the plastic surgeons thing," she says, waving her hand. "I noticed the lack of those myself. The punching thing."

"One of my first instructors in hunting," he replies. "It feels like it should be a proverb, doesn't it? I wonder why it's not?"

"Because hunters are crazy," she tells him, and he watches her expression darken. "Look, Cas--"

"We have a plan." She stills. "May I show you?"

Reluctantly, she extends her hand again, fingers icy against his own. Watching her face, he sees her lips tighten as he shows her the whole, eyes closing tightly as they finish, and letting her go, he sits back again. 

When she opens her eyes, she makes a terrible attempt at a smile. "You call that a plan?"

"Dean calls it 'good enough'," he explains. "We're working on something better."

He sees her fingers curl in on themselves on the surface of the desk. "Cas, it's a nice thought, but the risk--"

"The 'shooting you in the head' option remains on the table," he interrupts, not quite able to conceal his bitterness. "Forgive me for not being eager to do so."

Shoulders slumping, she braces her elbows on the desk, head dropping into her hands. "I know, Cas. I’m sorry."

"It seems my fate to be propositioned to commit murder and the requester apologize for it," he answers evenly. "If you truly understand why you should apologize, then perhaps it should occur to you that there are some requests you never make of a friend."

"You don't understand--"

"I understand perfectly." She lifts her head, face naked. "You don’t want to survive."

* * *

Motioning Dean to one of the sleeping bags spread on the floor in her team's room, Alicia locks the door and takes the other one, settling cross-legged and uncannily calm.

He stares at her, trying again to see her holding a gun and pointing it at Cas's cabin; it doesn't work. He sees her at the kitchen table with Cas in their cabin in the morning, bright and relentlessly cheerful; the scars on her hands when she was flipping that knife on New Year's Eve; in the Situation Room, defending the infiltrators who caused that first attack on Ichabod still carrying the memory of those four kids in isolation she gave mercy; climbing on top of Cas when he was seizing to keep him still so Vera could start the IV and talking herself hoarse like it never occurred to her he could rip her apart by _accident_ , much less on purpose; playing bait and switch with Croats; and the bright smile when she detonated those cars.

He thinks of the way she looked when he ordered her to get up after she fell, when she tried to kick the postern door down, when she gave Andy mercy, when Kat attacked her; when she told him she was at the cabin and when she gave him the script for her own execution; when she sat in the fucking mess in a sea of isolation this morning and pretended to eat. Chitaqua toast, fucking dryer elf traps, terrifyingly vague plans of ambush practice in Chitaqua involving fucking _nets_ (God, what are her and Cas _planning_?), and there is no line. If there was one and you cross it, you can cross back.

Crossing to the other sleeping bag, he sits down, and Alicia taps the notebook in her lap. "Is this verbatim?"

"Joe transcribed everything," he answers. "Why?"

She frowns. "Micah didn't tell you about me."

Implied--or tried to--that she was involved, but he never stated it verbatim. "No." Then, because he can't stop himself, "Just think, if you'd kept your mouth shut, I wouldn't have known at all."

"That, yeah," she answer distractedly. "But I mean anything. Other than that I'm his wife and a liar, probably because it's reflex after this long."

"And he thought I'd believe him."

Something flickers across her face. "He's a lawyer. He's used to getting a jury to believe utter bullshit. I'm not saying you're particularly credulous, but he's a masher, you're a potato, and potatoes are mashed, get what I mean?" She stops short, looking uncertain. "Also, all people are potatoes, I should have started with that. Some, Irish potatoes."

"How often did you get high in college?"

"Dropped out after the first semester," she answers promptly. "First time I got high, Cas told me I'd think thoughts and they'd be groovy. I did and they were." She shakes her head, brown ponytail bobbing. "Anyway, it's not just that; he didn't even try to get you to ask any of the right questions so he could deploy bullshit in a plausible manner. Or in this case, the actual truth, which would be new for him, yeah, so maybe he was confused?"

"What were the right questions?" he asks. "Like how Erica knew your name was Stephanie. Sends her love, by the way." It wasn't rocket science to work out who Erica was referring to--Joe and Amanda both picked it up--but neither recognized the name, either. Which means Alicia may be the only person Erica told; that's not just work-buddy friends shit, not at Chitaqua.

"Can't say I miss her." Her expression drifts between anger and regret, like something lost. "So it worked, huh?"

"What worked?"

"You didn't know my name." He shakes his head on cue. "Then Cas and Chuck didn't find anything. I worked on that ID for a while, though Chitaqua's background check wasn't what I had in mind; never did get to road test it." Dean starts to ask why, but she shakes her head. "You'll know what to ask in a minute. First, Erica was Lisette Martin, only survivor of the Covenington Thanksgiving Day Massacre. Ring a bell?"

"Her entire family was killed by her boyfriend," he says, nodding and filing away the name. "He was a Luciferite, yeah, I know."

"I figured you knew," she says. "After they found her, she was on a psychiatric hold for almost two months: catatonia followed by a psychotic break that included raving about Lucifer pretty much guarantees that."

"And they let her go?"

"Not exactly," she answers. "She killed two orderlies and seriously injured her psychiatrist when she escaped. Vanished after that--she wouldn't talk about it, just that she was looking for that cult--then came to Chitaqua, and you know this part." Kind of, yeah. "Dean, you can pretend here, but you had no idea what you were dealing with when it came to her. No one did."

It dawns on him that Alicia may be trying to make him feel better about recruiting a psychopath. "I knew what she was."

"You didn't know shit," she replies. "She lost her entire family, and I mean _everyone_ : great-grandma and second cousin once removed to three month old niece. It was a family reunion, and they were close; three hours before he took them downstairs, she and Dave announced their engagement." She hesitates. "And that they were having a baby."

He wonders if he ever thought, even once, that anything--even tragedy--could be simple. 

"When she woke up--about two week after they got her out of that basement--she had no one and nothing. And that's also when she found out that she miscarried before they found her. Her first words after they told her were, 'I'm still down there.'" 

"She never left that basement."

"I could be wrong, but Chitaqua--it was the closest she ever came to leaving it. With us, it was--her story might have been the worst--God, I hope--but at Chitaqua, we _invented_ a brand new scale to deal, you know? You didn't have to know what happened to someone to know; like knows like."

He nods.

"Second month of training," Alicia continues. "We accidentally ended up in the infirmary at the same time--never shall I ever forget to check my bootlaces before going anywhere, ever again--and got to know each other. We had a lot in common. More than I thought."

Like knows like. "Her mass murdering boyfriend used to beat her up, too?" He doesn't realize what he was going to say until the words are out of his mouth, but he doesn't regret it, even as Alicia's face drains of color. "Luciferite isn't synonymous with good boyfriend behavior, just saying. I could see it."

"Ironically," she says slowly, "he was a perfect gentlemen. It was the one before him. It wasn't like that with me and Micah." Then, unexpectedly, "I mean, it was, but there were rules, you know what I mean? With Micah, I mean. He had to have a very bad day, he had to have a drink, we had to be in private, I had to have done something--what could change, sure, but it was always _something_ \--we had to argue, he had to unexpectedly lose his temper...it wasn't all the time, it wasn't even most of the time, it was one percent, maybe two, three, five, ten at most. In between, he loved me and I loved him and everything would work out for the best if I just kept trying. Marriages take work, everyone knows that."

"Do you even believe that bullshit?" he asks, wondering who told her that and if they're dead yet. They're probably alive and kicking; this world, at least, doesn't even pretend there's such a thing as justice.

"Sure. I mean, I had to have," she answers reasonably. "What reasonable person stays with someone who hits them when they don't remember to pick up that cheese that smells like socks that you can't pronounce because its name has no vowels or say something weird to the senior partners? Hint: they don't, no one does that. They gotta be getting something out of it, though, and that's kind of all I got. You gotta know the statistics--okay, maybe you don't, but I do. My therapist had a giant board and everything--and I'm saying...." She shakes her head. "My reasons were shitty. They usually are."

Dean clenches his fists unseen in his lap and nods, letting it go. "You and Erica bonded over shitty SO's, got it."

"Got it," she agrees. "And the kids I killed." Her eyes focus on some point over his shoulder. "I was very drunk, though: never meant to tell her about that. You'd think I'd have learned by now, am I right?"

She'd done it before. "What happened?"

"Back then," she says in an eerily calm voice, "Croatoan was still this scary story we traded on shift, you know? I was just an EMT and epidemic was just a word; I didn't know shit." She takes a breath. "A couple of weeks before, I was getting a check-up, and Leo caught me coming out--my supervisor," she explains. "Wanted to warn me since I was on leave--they'd had a scare or something--and he told me what Code Green meant these days: Green for Do Not Pass Go and Get Out. Never did ask how he found out, but he told me to be careful, there'd been some weird shit. I blew it off, didn't even think about it again until--until I heard it. Everyone started leaving. Everyone," she says in a different voice, "but the patients."

"Croat." She nods, and it hits him. "It was a _baby_?"

"The first one," she answers like a punch to the gut. "There were ten infected. Every baby delivered on the day shift, starting at 8:38 AM: the last was born at 3:10 PM."

Last born there because about an hour later, the first manifested in the goddamn nursery: Christ. "How were they infected?"

"Erythromycin ointment contaminated with Croatoan," she answers calmly. "When they're first born, Apgar check at one and five minutes, height and weight, and erythromycin for their eyes. It's an antibiotic to prevent blindness, in case the mother had gonorrhea or chlamydia, standard for vaginal delivery. She smiled when she did it--the nurse, I mean," she adds in surprise. "She probably smiled at every mom there when she infected their babies, can you imagine that? Before they even got to hold them."

It's the sickest thing he's ever heard. "On purpose."

"Oh yeah," she agrees, a ripple of something dangerous in her voice. "Andrea Simmons, happiest Luciferite I ever met; her second day on the job, came in bright and early for murder day. Pretty sure she was a Luciferite, I mean, no way to be sure, but spreading Croat was kind of their thing, you know what I mean? She was new at the hospital, they hadn't even finished her background check. State hospital, short-staffed, limited funds, shitty goddamn pay, maybe the computer broke: what can you do? If they'd done their goddamn jobs before letting her anywhere near the maternity ward, they would have found out she didn't exist; even the nursing license belonged to someone else, and it'd been revoked six months earlier for gross negligence." She meets his eyes. "I didn't know for sure, mind you, but I guessed that Green for Do Not Pass Go and Get Out didn't end well for the patients."

"Yeah." This part, he never needed anyone to tell him, not knowing what happened on the border. He's only surprised anyone was allowed out. "And you weren't down with that."

"I screamed fire as loud as I could and pulled the alarm at the nurse's station in the maternity ward. It was an old hospital, and I figured they hadn't gotten around to overriding that on all the doors, so everything unlocked. Cost-cutting, they were fans, and I knew this hospital to the ground, I worked there enough. I was right; I managed to grab a couple of the calmer people and tell them what happened and where everyone needed to go on my way."

"No one tried to stop you?"

"Not many left: they did know how to run," she answers, an edge of mockery in her voice. "Those nurses and doctors, they had orderlies when their patients got grumpy; I once wrestled a guy twice my size onto the ground and got him bandaged up while his wife--probably not entirely unjustifiably, our acquaintance was by necessity limited, but he was a total dick--shot at us both from the front porch of their house. Domestic violence and attempted homicide, more likely than you think: I got to see statistics in action every day." She gets a strange expression on her face. "It was so quiet."

Dean fights not to react. "Quiet?"

"The hospital. Weird, right? I could hear my footsteps all the way up the steps and down the hall, like there was an echo or something. It was like being in a horror movie, you know, the dumb person who has to go see what's behind that door? I was that dumb person, but me, one, I knew what was behind the door, and two, I went prepared. I got into the drug cabinet--someone didn't pay attention about closing those before abandoning their patients--and got everything that looked murdery. Croat's hard to kill after it manifests, am I right?"

"Yeah," he agrees hoarsely and hastily clears his throat. "Yeah, it is."

"Fentanyl with a potassium chloride chaser, added a lethal dose of cyanide because why not?" she continues dreamily. "Brought that one with me, glad I did, for did I need it? I did. No mistakes: this time, had to get it right first try. Grabbed a box of syringes and some gloves, I was ready for just about anything. Moved them from in front of the door first--"

"Who?" he asks before he can stop himself and regrets it when the haze threatens to crack. The last time she told anyone this story, she was drunk, and like Cas getting high before talking to him about the cabin, he's pretty sure there's a reason for that. 

"Four women: one was just a kid herself, maybe fifteen. They were still in their gowns, all rucked up--they just left them there, like it didn't matter. I couldn't just--I couldn't leave them like that, you know?"

He nods and keeps his mouth firmly shut. 

"There was blood everywhere, the coagulation--when you moved them, it made this sound...heard it a hundred times, but every time, brand new." He nods again, tasting the acid-edge of breakfast (and maybe every meal he's had this week) in the back of his throat. "When they heard the fire alarm, they went to save their babies. Of course they did, why didn't I--I should have thought first, bad decision, see what I mean? I do that."

Jesus Christ: they died right outside the nursery. "How'd they die?" he asks when the silence goes on a little too long; a glance at Alicia's hands show them locked together in her lap, which makes him wonder if she realized he was watching them earlier when they talked. 

"They were shot in the head." She looks past him, and he wonders if she's seeing that hospital now. "I got some sheets, covered them up--and I told them I'd take care of everything. And I did: I broke the padlock on the nursery doors with my trusty sledgehammer and went inside. You ever seen--no, I asked you that already, forgot. Sorry."

"It's fine," he says soothingly, surreptitiously shifting to the edge of the sleeping bag.

"There was one nurse left--they locked her in, I guess. She was kind in shock but seemed fine otherwise. Newborns don't have teeth or much in the way of fingernails, you know, but gotta be a little unsettling when a newborn tries to kill you." 

"They were all...."

"Every one of them." She wets her lips before continuing. "I told her to leave in a firm yet kind voice--or shouted, who knows, it's been a while, but seriously, girlfriend needed to run far and away before they got back--and closed the door. Then I...." She licks her lips, meeting his eyes. "Five boys and four girls: one set of identical twins, two fraternal. I put on my gloves and took care of them. Their moms--they would have done it. They would have loved them enough to not make them live like that for a second longer than they had to. So I did it for them." Her voice turns thready. "Then I went to look--I was missing a mom, you see. I knew she wouldn't have left. She wasn't hard to find."

"Where was she?" he asks softly, though he's pretty sure he already knows.

"On the floor at the end of the hall," Alicia whispers. "She'd delivered at 2:45 PM, emergency Caesarean, not a big deal, but she'd lost a lot of blood. She--she ripped open the stitches trying to get to her kid, bled out right there on the floor. I took them all to the nursery, so--so they could be with their kids. Then I left."

Dean shifts closer, less subtly.

"Obviously, I mean," she continues tonelessly. "Infanticide is very much frowned upon by society, especially when Croat is just a story, epidemic is a word, I was just an EMT, and none of it actually happened. Still not sure of the events after this, kind of hazy, the infection, I didn't really--anyway, somehow, I ended up in Chitaqua." 

Dean keeps his mouth closed and doesn't say a goddamn thing.

* * *

Alison closes her eyes and nods. All at once, she drops the façade she'd taken on his arrival, and this time, Castiel can see not just the exhaustion and pain, but something far worse: the lack of hope.

"When this is over--" Castiel starts.

"It won't ever be over." Shoving herself to her feet, the chair crashes into the wall behind her. "This is my _life_ , Cas!" He watches her run her hands through her hair, just missing a forgotten pencil and bringing the entire questionable remaining structure down around her shoulders. "I know what you said--I'm made to do this, I'll adapt--but you said it yourself; it's too much, too fast, and you don't even know how much more I--"

"I do know." She wets her lips, fighting hope and losing, and that makes it infinitely harder. "When you reach your full potential, you'll be the most powerful psychic ever to walk the earth."

For a moment, he wonders if she understood him. "What?"

"It's not certain, but given how quickly you're progressing...." He trails off, unable to meet the hazel eyes as they fill with dawning horror. "Manifestation in childhood is usually less than a tenth of a psychic's full potential, though puberty is when the speed of progression increases exponentially. You, however--if you'd manifested at a hundredth of your potential in childhood, you wouldn't have been sane; a child's brain is far too malleable. It's likely your latency was protective as well; only a fully adult mind could hope to cope with--"

"I'm _not_ coping with it!" she shouts, hands fisted at her sides. "Cas, you're not getting this; I _can't_ live like this! Not for the rest of my life! Saying it will be better when there's less people just means until I progress again and I can start hearing the entire goddamn state! Then you'll tell me about how I'll get better at shielding. And then it jumps again and--Cas, I'm in an arms race with my own goddamn mind! I can't do this! I don't _want_ to!" 

Hands shaking, she grabs her chair, dragging it back and sitting down like falling into a hole that she hopes she won't ever have to leave.

"When it was just Ichabod...." She blows out a breath. "It was a million times better after you showed me how to shield, yeah, but never _good_. It was work--every day, every night--to keep from hearing everything. I was always a little tired and always trying not to listen and always a little distracted, and since the last level up, it's--" She cuts herself off, staring at the desk. "I know nothing is easy, Cas, I do, and everyone's got a shit part of their lives, but the shit part is _living my life_. I don't even know for sure how much of me is _me_ anymore and how much is other people when I slip, and I slip all the time!"

He nods.

"Have you...have you ever been tired?" she asks, looking at him earnestly. "So tired that--that you didn't care about anything?" He nods again. "Doing this--reading people's minds all the time--you did it as an angel, I get it, and maybe it's different then--"

"Very different," he agrees. "Human minds are alien to us; they were open to us at all times, of course, but _different_. They could not intrude upon us; they were separate."

She nods tiredly. "That sounds about right."

"Privacy of the mind that humans enjoy is equally alien to an angel, however," he continues. "From the moment of my Creation until I Fell, I had no concept of my thoughts belonging to me alone. I was but a foot soldier in the Host, and all of my Brothers were entitled to my mind, to read what I thought and examine all that I did at their leisure; I had no context for existence where that wasn't a given."

Alison nods slowly. 

"For over two years on earth before I Fell, I was hunted by my Brothers, and I learned methods of hiding myself from them. They were still there, but between us was a barrier I created for Dean's safety and my own; it was like--a wall, behind which existed a roar that never stopped. It was--in a sense--unnatural; I had no right to deny them what was theirs, to pretend to claim it as my own."

She makes a face. "And when you Fell?"

"The silence was horrifying," he answers honestly. "But worse was the _absence_. Even when I didn't let them hear me, I could feel them there; now the space that was theirs was unoccupied. Imagine an enormous room, a room so vast you cannot see the walls. It was once filled entirely; now, it's empty."

"Oh God," she whispers, reaching across the desk to touch his hand, fingers warm as they lace through his and squeeze. "I'm sorry."

He squeezes her hand in return and pauses, startled to realize the warmth isn't entirely physical; it's reassurance, comfort, regret, support, woven together inexpertly but with transparent honesty. Looking at her, he spares a moment to wonder how someone who can't help but try to ease pain even in the midst of her own would believe, for even a moment, that she would willingly become a monster. Or would ever choose to remain one if she did.

"I'm not." He spoke truly when he told Dean that, but he didn't realize at some point, even the memory of longing became only that: a memory. "Now, all that is within that room is my own; what I think, I feel, I decide--it's mine alone, it's _me_. The room is mine, and so is all within it. No one else has any right to it. It's not empty; I fill it very well." 

Meeting her eyes, he shows her the empty room as it was then: a bare expanse of frozen white absence, vast beyond measure. He walked endlessly in search of its end and never found it; he might have walked forever there, but there was too much to do. He had to learn to understand this foreign thing, his not-quite human body: how to exist within it; to use it; to keep it living and healthy. He had to learn the sharp limits of corporeal existence, to navigate existence on a single plane, on a single world, in a single time. There was Dean always, first and only and all things he had ever known; there was the camp and those he must teach for him; there were people he must understand for him; there was a world he must save for him--and then there were those he must teach, because they needed him; people he must understand, because they were themselves; a world he couldn't save, that was already over, and they were only marking time until the end.

Then it was over....but not quite. They weren't done yet.

Without warning, more comes: patrol meetings in the morning, coffee with Alicia, sparring with Amanda and Mark, inspecting the cabins and later, the mess and imagining a better one (one with ranges and ovens that work), stringing lights and Dean stubbornly perched on that pole....Dean on the porch at their cabin while they shared an evening beer, at the kitchen table making him coffee for the first time, in their living room still worried about what Castiel did to himself that night Kansas City; sleep restless as the fever burned through him and relaxing at a touch; arguing with Vera and laughing with Joseph and teaching him how to win at poker; on their range shooting point-blank until his hand was too cramped to hold the gun and stalking Jeffrey and digging the foundation for the new mess in Chitaqua--the room should be full with all of that, he thinks uncertainly, pulling away. Yet it's not.

"It's never going to be full, Cas; it's not a room." Alison looks inexplicably satisfied. "No wonder you can't see it anymore. I was wondering what you meant when you said that. Makes sense now, thanks."

Castiel closes his hand around the fading warmth from her touch. "See what?"

"Infinity," she answers in surprise. "Too much to do filling it up."

He opens his mouth to correct her, but for some reason, the words refuse to form.

"Huh." She extends her hand again, snapping her fingers impatiently. "Any time now."

Reluctantly, he takes it, and she unfolds Ichabod before him as it is now. Its almost blinding; clusters of lights like stars, bright enough to light the universe and to spare. Constellations sketched in human brilliance across an infinite sky; he almost envies her ability to see this.

"Anytime you want," she promises, then her fingers tighten, and the focus narrows, like entering the heart of a star at the speed of light, as close and as familiar as his own skin....

He stills, staring at her across a desk and infinite space. "It's not a room."

"Know thyself," she whispers, laughter in her voice as she pulls them back out, and he stares into the infinite brightness of that single light: his own. "Looks like you have too much to do to stare into infinity and contemplate amoebas these days." Letting go, she sits back and smiles. "You didn't know?"

He shakes his head, giving himself a moment to absorb the impossible (or rather, set it aside because that will very likely take time, perhaps years). "Thank you," he says; it's inadequate (much like water is slightly damp), but it will have to do for now. 

"Anytime," she answers, but her smile falters; 'anytime' could, if she has her way, be measured in days, perhaps hours. "Cas, look--"

"I understand," he tells her. "To have my mind violated, to risk drowning beneath the thoughts of others, unable to find my own, to have them taken again--" He cuts himself off, startled by his own horror and forces himself to set that aside, too "I'm not sure I wouldn't want to choose death."

"You'd want to," she says quietly. "But you wouldn't do it."

He considers that carefully. "No. I wouldn't. Not if I had any other choice."

"Because of Dean."

"Yes, of course. But for myself as well," he admits. "Dean is alive. To have him, so must I be."

She looks away. "Teresa. That's where this is going, right? You think I’m being selfish, not thinking about her--"

" _That_ is what you heard?" he interrupts in exasperation. "I apologize; my intentions were to display empathy and understanding. I won't make that mistake again."

Alison starts to answer, then sighs. "Okay, sorry. I just--"

"You're tired," he says. "And you're terrified. In your position, I would be as well. Now that we've established that, may I continue?"

"Sure," she answers dully. "What were we talking about?"

"What is to be done," he says. "Losing your abilities permanently, I assume, would be the ideal solution, am I correct?" She nods tiredly. "Which isn't possible."

She nods shortly.

"So best case scenario is out of the question," he continues. "However, would you consider 'good enough' as an option? With the guarantee of improvement over time?"

Alison's gaze sharpens. "What does that mean?"

"I've told you about my personal experience with psychics," he says. "One I knew personally, Pamela; the other, Missouri, was a friend of Dean's. They had much in common: both manifested in childhood, both were very powerful, but they had one other thing that they share with no other psychic in history. Except you."

"What?"

"All of you," he answers deliberately, "were born in the twentieth century. Specifically, after nineteen forty-six."

* * *

He lets the silence stretch until she looks ready to talk again. "And then Micah showed up." She nods. "How'd he find you?"

She laughs, jagged and painful. "Christ, Dean, wrong question. How the fuck did I ever believe, even for a minute, that he _wouldn't_? Two weeks later, there is he, like my own private what the fuck. I really did think about telling him to fuck himself--my therapist was very adamant about rejecting any attempts at reconciliation--but problem: Stephanie was very much wanted for questioning in regard to murder."

"He was going to turn you in?"

"Himself? No, he loved me," she answers. "But he was really worried you might. After all, he wanted to believe me, but there was no proof. And that's what he would have tell you if you asked, he couldn't lie. Probably without the 'wanted to believe', or maybe like, with an asterisk to express 'totally don't believe her', what do you think?"

That son of a bitch. "I would've believed you," he says, and believes--because he's got to--that the other Dean would have, too.

"Good to know," she says with a flicker of irony. "But at the time, you might say I had trust issues. I couldn't even get a restraining order; you don't get those just because you're clumsy and have no sense of balance and fall down the stairs when your husband had a bad day, was tired, was drinking, unexpectedly lost his temper, and I...not sure, but I did do something, what, who can tell? My parents didn't understand why I'd lie about such a great guy from such a nice family, relationships have their ups and downs, and marriage is commitment you don't just quit at the first little snag, grow up, and maybe if you'd just have a baby that would help--" She sucks in a breath, settling inside herself again. "Dad threw a plate, once, and Mom told me how he brought her flowers and it was fine: totally comparable, see what I mean? My friends.…" She wrinkles her nose. "Didn't have a lot of those. Most were married to other partners, and he was sleeping with at least two of them."

He has no idea why that does it, but it does. "He was fucking your _friends_?"

Alicia blinks, face losing a little of that painful tightness. "Yeah, and Tiffy's husband still voted him in as partner. Crazy, right?"

"Yeah," he agrees helplessly. "Crazy."

"You're probably asking yourself, why I put up with it, didn't just kick him to the curb--everyone does, even me, but like I said, bad reasons, they're my thing--"

"I'm not." Alicia's mouth shuts mid-word, and he clears his throat again to get rid of the rasp; seriously, that shit's gotta stop. "No one has the right to ask you that question."

Her lips tighten. "You feel sorry for me, don't you?"

"I'm not a demon or a sociopath," he retorts. "So yeah, I do. But I'll pretend I don't, that work for you?" There's something really satisfying about throwing insanely smart people off their game. Cas is getting better at hiding it, but Alicia obviously hasn't had enough practice. "Well?"

"Sure," she answers after a beat. 

"Awesome, so let's skip to the part where fuck knows what you'll try to convince me happened," he says before she gets back on script: she and Cas, they're good at this. "Let me start. Erica was your team leader and your friend." Somehow, he manages not to spit when he says 'friend', which is a goddamn miracle. "I bet that made it hard for Micah to unexpectedly lose his temper when you weren't around much to experience it. And when you were home, Erica'd stop by to hang out, just making him miserable; no wonder he didn't like her." 

"It's almost like you were there."

Dean just stops himself from reacting. "As your team leader, she'd also know about any injuries you'd get on patrol or in training, so any others--she'd wonder about those, right? Probably told him just that and that she'd be checking, stop me if I'm wrong, though come on, we both know I'm not."

"Yeah, she did." Her mouth quirks reluctantly. "God, he hated her; picking me instead of him for her team, showing up all the time--"

"You weren't invisible."

"Yeah." Alicia's mouth trembles as she nods. "So--you know this part. When Erica asked me to--help--I said yes."

"No you didn't." 

Alicia's expression flickers, there and gone. "I was there that night. Obviously, I said yes."

"Not the first time. Okay, here's the thing," he says. "About two weeks before that night, you were injured on duty and surprise, out of everyone in Chitaqua, Erica replaces you with your asshole husband, who around the same time--maybe the same day, who knows?--Erica took to the Crossroads to make a deal. My question is, the first time she asked you, did she try and sweeten the deal by promising Micah would take the fall for Cas and Vera's death? I never did work out how the hell she was going to explain what happened to them, but Micah as the fall guy, with a horrified girlfriend to confirm everything? I would have bought it."

"No, she didn't--" Alicia shuts her mouth, blue eyes focusing on him warily. "What are you doing?"

"Make a deal with you," he says. "I'll believe you--whatever you come up with to explain a craps-with-Cas-level series of coincidences--if you tell me why, even now, you're protecting them?"

"I'm not!" she bursts out. "Why would I--"

"That's what I want to know. Look at me," he snaps when she looks away, waiting until she meets his eyes. "Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me--"

"It was my choice," she interrupts. "At the end of the day, it's the person who pulled the trigger who made that decision, no one else."

"No choice is made in a vacuum," he counters. "Who put the gun in your hand, Alicia? Why did you pick it up in the first place? What would happen to you if you _didn't_?"

"Nothing!" She shuts her eyes, shoulders slumping. "Nothing I couldn't handle."

"What did she do to you when you said no?" he asks quietly. "Was it an accident? You were definitely injured, come on; I doubt Erica had the balls to lie to my face when it was something I could check for myself."

She snorts softly. "Yeah, that would have been nice, someone--" She cuts herself off. "It was an accident."

"The kind of accident that happens on patrol if you piss the team leaders off?"

"Those kind of accidents didn't have survivors." She makes a face. "I don't remember it. The accident, I mean."

"What do you remember?"

"It'd been raining most of the previous week," she starts, voice changing, and he wonders how often she's gone over this in her own mind before today. "Erica told us that a nest of vampires had been reported in the area--though gotta tell you, they could definitely do better than an assumed cave in the middle of the woods. It was muddy, the ground, and I may have--I _must_ have stepped wrong. I woke up in the infirmary banged up with a concussion; Darryl told me that I went down a hill and hit every rock that existed. It--I could be clumsy--" 

"Yeah, cheerleaders are known for that," he agrees, and this time, she just looks at him. "I get it, it's reflex. Make a deal with you: pretend that you know I'll believe whatever you say from here on out and tell me what really happened."

She tries to smile. "And you will...?"

"Believe you," he answers, and her smile vanishes. "Whatever you say."

She leans back against the wall, expression closed, and Dean waits, trying to be patient. If he could do it for her, he would, but this is as far as he can get on his own on guesswork.

"I don't know if it was an accident," she says abruptly. "In the weirdest of all possible worlds, it might--might have happened like they told me."

Dean lets out a breath: okay. "You're an EMT. Tell me your assessment of the patient."

"Definitely went down a hill," she answers, eyes distant. "She was unconscious before she went down; if she'd been conscious, she wouldn't have been relaxed and the injuries would have been much worse. And it was weird, because there was one place that was just fine. You know what you do when you fall, first thing? It's instinctive."

He glances down at her hands. "Your hands. No scratches."

"My right knuckles were a little swollen, though," she says, her right hand flexing in her lap. "Later, I found out Felix had a black eye. Weird, am I right? Could happen."

"How long did you tell yourself that?"

"I was going to ask Erica next time I saw her," she answers. "But after Micah unexpectedly lost his temper three times in three days while I was stuck at home, being unfit for duty and everything, I got the impression she wasn't interested in my questions before I changed my answer to hers."

It dawns on him there might have been another reason that Micah went willingly to the Crossroads. "That's how she got him," he says softly. "He didn't deal because there was a gun to his head. He dealt so she'd put down the one she'd been holding on him since she met you. He gets your place on her team, and you all to himself again, no questions asked ever again."

"We were friends," Alicia says slowly, but underneath the calm ripples something that makes the hair rise on the back of his neck. "She was my team leader. She hated Micah, she understood--she understood me, and she promised to help." The blue eyes flicker to his, and he just stops himself from flinching at the raw anger, over two years old and still as fresh as it was two and a half years ago. "Then she set him on me like a goddamn attack dog when I said no."

He'd guessed that much, but hearing it is a whole other story. '"And Darryl--"

"Darryl confirmed I was medically unfit for duty, though for how long, who could say? Concussions are tricky things. Talk about foreshadowing in real life...."

"He knew, too." Darryl, Erica, her entire goddamn _team_ , the other team leaders, maybe some others involved: to the rest, she was invisible. 

"Yeah." She visibly braces herself. "So you're probably wondering why I didn't--"

"Tell someone?" he bursts out incredulously. "Jesus Christ, do I look that stupid? _Who_?"

Her eyes widen before all at once, she starts to laugh. Covering her mouth doesn't seem to help and without thinking, he moves to sit beside her. As carefully as he can, he eases an arm around her shoulders, feeling her shake like she just might shatter as she slumps against him. He thinks it may be relief.

"I didn't even believe it myself; new place, new time, and it was happening _again_ ," she says finally, barely a whisper. "My best friend, my husband, and my fucking doctor couldn't be lying, am I right? Darryl said--probably with a straight face, he was stoned a lot--that I should just stay home and let Micah watch over me." She chokes back another laugh. "I wonder what was on that medical report. Never saw it, but maybe Micah just told him his skillsets and to extrapolate." 

"For two weeks," he says out loud, just to hear it: two weeks in the middle of Chitaqua, she was being beaten by her husband, and no one knew but the people who made it happen. No visitors: to everyone else, she was invisible.

"Thirteen days." She takes a shuddering breath. "No idea how long she planned to keep trying, but then Felix was injured--legitimately--Debra went out with them and got herself killed, and Vera went after you."

"And Erica decided no more waiting."

"She came to talk to me the night before. God," she whispers, "the look on her face when she saw me--she felt guilty, you believe that? Probably not, I wouldn't have if I hadn't seen it. She wasn't a sociopath, Dean; she fucking wished. She felt terrible--not as bad as I felt, but I don't think anyone could--and.... And she told me this was my last chance and then she told me a story. About when she watched you interrogate a demon." Over the roar in his ears, he hears Alicia say, "She was trying to scare me, I get that, but she didn't need to try that hard; being in that room with her was all it took." She tilts her head up to look at him. "You didn't know what she was, Dean. _I_ didn't know, not until that night, listening to her describe torturing a demon like a how-to guide and realizing how much she was looking forward to doing it herself."

"Yeah." He never thought of that. In retrospect, he wonders how the fuck he could have missed it.

"Then she told me that someone had to take the fall for Cas and Vera--that's when I found out she was a target, too--and it was gonna be me and Micah or just Micah, my choice. So you were right about that, good call. How you'd react when you found Cas's body was up in the air, of course, but she didn't think I'd rate higher than a demon. Especially with that history of baby killing; she showed me the warrant for my arrest and the police report, Micah's statement, the coroners' report," her voice breaks on a gasp, and he tightens his arm. "All the details," she whispers. "I didn't even remember most of it, isn't that weird? Wonder what that cost Chitaqua: border guards aren't cheap." She looks away. "I said yes. Obviously. Talk about an offer you can't refuse: I don't die horribly and just as importantly right then, Micah definitely would."

He nods, numb. "Can't blame you." 

"Dean, I--" She pulls away enough to face him, and to his horror, she looks guilty. "I didn't believe that you'd--I didn't, Dean, you gotta believe that. I just--it was a bad time. I'm sor--"

"You were tired and you were scared," he interrupts; if he hears her apologize for believing a fundamental truth about Dean Winchester, he isn't sure what will happen. "Then you were terrified and there was no way out. Micah spent two weeks unexpectedly losing his temper with you. Cas was gonna die either way, and you...." He clears his throat. "You didn't want to be tortured to death. I get it."

"I wasn't into the 'bullet to the head' thing, either, but Erica, see 'overkill'," she says. "She begged me to say yes." She presses her lips together, shaking her head. "There were other things I could have tried. I could have killed myself, and I did think about it--"

"Jesus, Alicia."

"--but I still chose to do it." She looks up at him. "I had two weeks, Dean; I should have gone to someone--you, if I had to, and even if you didn't believe me, at least I'd have tried. I should have said no and spit in her face--but I didn't. I knew it was wrong--like, in the 'nothing can make this okay' way, but....I didn't care. I just wanted it to stop. I picked up my gun, went where I was told, and--when it was over, I realized I was wrong; I did care. Just too late for it to matter. Three days later, Erica showed up because I was late for local patrol, like nothing happened. And I realized I was wrong about that, too; it wasn't over, and it never would be. I still had to live with it.

"You wanted reasons, but that doesn't make them good ones. You pick up the gun, you take aim, and you fire: I said yes three times. No one held a gun to my head to do it."

The thing is, another life, he would have bought that; now, he knows just how many kinds of guns there are, and that the worst shots are the ones you survive.

* * *

Alison waits, then finally, grudgingly, "Get on with it."

"In 1836, Michael Faraday--one of the foremost minds in the study of electricity and electromagnetism--performed an experiment called 'the ice pail experiment'," he answers. "It was in relation to the examination of electromagnetic fields in the very new and exciting field of electricity. In 1920, ninety years later, the United States passed the Federal Power Act, which coordinated the development of hydroelectric power throughout the United States; by the end of World War II, most homes in this country were wired for electricity."

Alison's expression says she isn't going to pretend to be interested much longer.

"The availability of electricity in the private homes of the average citizen is in itself miraculous--you truly have no idea, it's only exceeded by the invention of the flush toilet, truly a wonder of the world--but it also made possible something entirely new in all of history," he continues. "Until I can discover if Missouri's house is still standing, I can't be sure of how it was accomplished, but I'm certain that she and Pamela both discovered something no other psychic in history had the ability to do--live on a remote mountain free of other minds within their own homes." Alison's eyes narrow. "They could--for a short time--lose the use of their abilities."

Alison straightens. " _What_?"

"Michael Faraday's experiment was a demonstration of the principles that govern electromagnetism," he continues. "It is also the basis of the creation of the Faraday cage. Effectively, using a mesh of conductive materials, it shields what is within from electromagnetic and electrostatic fields without, and vice-versus. Within that space, you would be unable to sense anyone outside of it as well as the reverse."

"Psychic powers are electricity?" Alison asks blankly, and yes, that. Human curiosity can be very inconvenient.

"For the purposes of this conversation," Castiel answers carefully, "and only this conversation, why not?"

"That's...was that supposed to be an answer?"

"It's more that you're asking the wrong question, so who knows?" he explains. "The right question won't be asked for roughly seven hundred years, and possibly two thousand more will pass before a partial answer is available that is also somewhat right. The Apocalypse has much to answer for when it comes to unconscionable delay of the progress of the sciences." 

"I'm guessing," she says, "the answer requires watching several channels as well. Using the infinite cable TV method of explanation."

"All the channels," he tells her regretfully. "Suffice to say, the underlying principles that govern physics as they exist in this universe state that this should work. The reason I know they do is because of those two psychics."

"Missouri and Pamela," she says, nodding.

"Yes. Both were telepathic--both active and passive, send and receive, and read-write, as you are, though you're far stronger. Missouri had both second sight and far stronger clairvoyance, though hers was more general, than either you or Pamela, while Pamela could view without harm a small portion of the infinite dimensions of infinity--though not more than that--and I think had the potential for necromancy, though--"

"Necromancy?" she asks in alarm. "That's real?"

"Potential," he assures her. "And yes. In any case: they were both very strong, unusually so, but also functional, which as I have said, is rather rare. They also used their abilities regularly, consistently, and without undue stress, and it must be said, were sane."

"Right," Alison says, nodding earnestly to show she doesn't trust his judgement on 'sanity'.

"I didn't think about it at the time," he continues, annoyed all over how much he missed during his time with Dean on earth after his resurrection until he Fell: teleportation, infinite knowledge, and Dean as a reference on human behavior, and what did he do with it? Traumatized innocent sex workers, learned about garage sales, and didn't smite Zachariah on spec. He was an _idiot_. "I should have; it's very rare psychics live and work and interact with the world as easily as they did, much less regularly use their abilities in a professional capacity without some degradation in mental health. I suspect that both discovered--probably by accident--that there were places their abilities were dulled or even null. Faraday cages are ridiculously common, but size and quality would be factors; they'd need to have tried to use their abilities while inside a place that happened to be lined with a conductive material on all sides. A closed bank vault, for example, or an industrial walk-in refrigerator if they shut the door. It's more likely, however, that they first discovered this in an elevator."

"An elevator?" Alison says incredulously. "That's it?"

"They would have noticed a reduction in background noise as well as experienced difficulty in reading anyone outside it, though how much would depend on the quality of the elevator," he answers. "They were both very strong, however; anything that could do that would be a source of interest. They were highly intelligent as well as motivated; it wouldn't have taken either of them very long to discover what caused it and to discover a way to use it."

"Missouri's house," she says, nodding. "You think it was a Faraday cage?"

"Probably at most a few rooms," he answers. "I would guess the bedroom, a closet, and perhaps the bathroom; who wouldn't desire privacy when forced to commit unspeakable acts of elimination? Missouri's house had two floors, so it's probable she also had one on the ground floor for easy access in case she needed to rest between clients."

"Why only a few rooms and not the whole house?"

"For one, both worked regularly with hunters as consultants, so they'd want to be able to sense things occurring nearby without leaving their home and its protective salt lines." Alison nods, understanding. "Also, both ran very profitable businesses in psychic readings, séances, fortune-telling, and various other activities, and they worked from home as well. Considering the price of leasing commercial space...." He shakes his head. "A wise decision. The prices are ridiculous, and working from home has many tax benefits, in case you're curious."

Alison stares at him. "And you've--dealt with that?"

"Charles Emerson Winchester III's business manager and accountant explained it," he explains and Alison's face lights up; she, at least, recognizes the reference. "Apparently, my commercial holdings have required a fifty-nine percent increase in price per square foot from three years ago, though I ordered that residential leasing rates remain locked into perpetuity. I think the leasing agency may be overcharging the tenants on the commercial properties: I should find someone who knows how to check for that." He realizes Alison's still staring at him. "What?"

"You're second on the FBI Most Wanted," she says, "and you have...real estate?"

"It's perfectly legal," he assures her. "Daphne incorporated a shell company for me--whatever that is--in the Virgin Islands, which now holds all my assets, including what I must admit is a truly impressive stock portfolio. Though it did help to be able to regularly verify my hunches with a glimpse into the future, especially with futures. Under a name other than that I used during my career as a stockbroker, of course; I understand that this is common when creating off-shore accounts, for some reason." 

She rests her chin on her hand. "Stocks I get, but why the real estate?"

Yes, that. "The apartment I was living in while I was in New York was being converted to private residences and I hadn't yet completed the mission. I didn't want to move, so...."

"You bought your apartment." 

"The building," he says reluctantly, and Alison's mouth drops open. "It was a very nice building and had a great deal of historical value; it was an example of something called a 'brownstone'--or 'flagstone', perhaps? I'm certain, however, that this was part of a major revolution in architectural design and shouldn't be lost to posterity. You may not be aware of this, it's also a superlative investment when one is focused on the long term." Alison's eyebrows inch upward. "Also, a safe base in New York City would be extremely useful to our plans. Honestly, acquiring a legally owned dwelling with paid utilities in every major city was only practical. Sometimes, you want to have an identity with established residency and safe houses with beds that don't smell of blood, myrrh, and wet dog. And working electricity, which suffice to say was less a given than you might think when regrouping from evil."

Alison eyebrows reach maximum height. "Okay, now the real reason."

"Have you ever heard of a concept known as 'rent-controlled'?" Alison bites her lip, nodding. "The residents were elderly, and after discussing the situation with Daphne, she thought it would be--less complicated--to simply purchase the building myself so nothing would change." 

"That's what I thought," she says after a moment, sounding inexplicably strangled as her cheeks gain color. "So everything worked out?"

"Everyone was very pleased," he answers, encouraged by her interest. "I received baskets of homemade baked goods for several weeks, and Mrs. Sheppard, Mrs. Rodriguez, and Mrs. Kowalski were determined to have me meet their unmarried daughters at the next opportunity. Mrs. Panson introduced me to her unmarried son, Jamal, an architect with a bright future in post-modernism who also had a secondary skill in interior design and remodeled my residence. I wish I'd appreciated food then," he muses. "I suspect they were delicious."

"And the women?" she asks. "And Jamal?"

"I have no idea if they were delicious," he says, not without regret, and Alison's cheeks grow pinker still. "Nor would I ever describe any person with whom I had sexual relations thus, for that is an excellent way to learn what 'cut off' means, as more than one person learned in Chitaqua. Some," he adds in distant horror, "didn't even have working showers."

Alison bursts into laugher, burying her face in her arms on the desk. Biting back a smile, Castiel waits for her to recover, and when she lifts her head, he's pleased to see some of the tiredness has receded.

"Does Daphne--who was Daphne again?"

"My lawyer." 

Briefly, Alison looks as if she might need another pause, but after taking a deep breath, she settles again (though much pinker). "Right, of course. So does she know...I'm not sure what goes here," she confesses. "Anything about you?"

"She knows I'm off the grid for the foreseeable future due to an interest in the exciting field of alpaca husbandry, currently located in rural Greece." Alison makes a sound like a squeezed kitten. "I'm eccentric, you see, which is the word for people who are both crazy and very wealthy, or so I was told."

"That sounds right," she says, hazel eyes sharp as they study him for a long moment. "I'm remembering that talk about you discovering the meaning of humor."

"I've been told it’s the best medicine." He considers for a moment. "No one can think clearly when they're afraid or in pain; this much of the human condition I've learned intimately. I would not offer you false hope, but--in your position I'd tell me to take my clever ideas and fuck myself with them. I need you to believe what I'm telling you, because it's true. We can do this."

Alison's expression doesn't change, then abruptly, she says, "Missouri and Pamela--they weren't crazy and ran businesses. Lived in towns. Hung out with people and weren't crazy, that's what you're telling me?"

"Yes. They also had very active social and personal lives," he confirms, watching her carefully. "They were extraordinary, as you are, but their gifts were the least of what made them what they were; they could simply be people as well. They were able to have normal lives, and you can have that as well."

"This Faraday cage--when I'm in it, I won't hear anyone?"

"The first version will only reduce the noise," he says honestly, but for some reason, that makes her relax. "Eliminating it entirely will take more time; we'll need to find the right materials and adjust it to you specifically, and every time your abilities increase, we'll need to adjust it again. It's not a single solution; it will be a work in progress, perhaps one that will continue all your life. I know that doesn't sound--"

"It sounds real," she interrupts, and he sees tears hovering in her eyes. "It sounds like something we could _do_. So go back: initial version, tell me the results, use numbers. Five, ten percent, maybe fifteen? I can--I can really use that."

"You will experience, at minimum, a fifty percent drop in noise."

Alison's mouth drops open before she covers it, eyes wide. " _Fifty_?" 

"Using the most easily accessible materials and the crudest and most quickly constructed version, yes, which is first on the list. However, what we need for the long term is something that can be designed and installed permanently--your bedroom, the hall bathroom--in fact, that half of the first floor of your building, depending if we can get the original floorplan of your building. Initially, however, with the very first, if you accept Teresa's assistance without argument, you will be able to drop your shields entirely and rest with only minimal interruption for at least six hours and if I'm in Ichabod, I may be able to assist and extend that, though I'm not sure how long."

Alison lets out a breath, closing her eyes. "I would really... _really_ like that."

"This will help with your instruction as well." She opens her eyes, looking interested. "You _are_ tired, and while your progress is excellent, it's also a source of additional stress with all you have to do to control your abilities. Your fear is also a problem--not that I blame you--and this will assist with that as well." Now comes the difficult part. "The problem is--"

"How to get one of those yesterday?" 

"No, though that's also a problem for more than time-related reasons," he says. "I can't build one myself--theory isn't the same as knowing how to do something--and this can't be as simple as the suits worn by people who work on power lines."

"I can get a _suit_?" Alison exclaims.

He feels as if she's missing the point. "Yes, but--and please accept this as a given--even if there were any in Ichabod--and there aren't or Tony and his teams would be using them and not the substandard replacements they created to work with massive amounts of electricity--it won't help you. As--for the purposes of this conversation right now only--your abilities are not electricity anymore."

"Light is a wave," she intones solemnly, " _and_ a particle."

Sometimes, yes. "Given this: we need someone who knows electric engineering or at least can learn very quickly the technical aspects of how to build the room."

"Walter," she says, nodding. "God, he's gonna love this, and Tony will love me for giving him a project. And I don't go crazy: everything's coming up Alison."

He smiles at her. "So sayeth Millhouse."

" _Simpsons_ fan," she says in satisfaction. "I knew it."

"To return to a much less enjoyable topic," he says regretfully. "If Missouri's house is still standing, that might give us guidance on the design aspects, but that still requires some minimal knowledge of one, how to build things, and two, how to make the thing built a Faraday cage specific to you, one that can be regularly upgraded without requiring major construction on a regular basis. The correct materials must be found, a location chosen, the room has to be designed, built, and tested, it must be placed somewhere you would normally spend time, and no one--except you, me, Teresa, and Dean--can know about it or even guess what it is, why it's there, or even that it exists."

Alison checks her nod. "What?"

* * *

After what feels like days, he realizes he's been quiet too long, but he can't bring himself to care. All he feels is tired: more than he was after running miles outside the Ichabod's walls, even more than right after he woke up from that goddamn fever. He doesn't think he's ever been this tired in his life.

"Why did you come to the two month thing after the second class was done?"

Startled, she looks at him.

"Thought that would be the last place you'd go," he explains, not sure why he's asking, but at least it breaks the silence. "Get away from Micah now that you and Erica weren't hanging out?"

"No--I mean, yeah, but that's not why." She slumps back against the wall. "I was just going to watch, but I needed the practice. It wasn't like it'd make a difference if I worked out or not; not like anyone would notice. I mean," she says quickly, "so many people from the first class, things going on, just--"

"I know what you mean." Dean grew up learning how to hide in plain sight, he's good at it, but those first weeks after he arrived in Chitaqua taught him what it really meant to be invisible. Alicia didn't even need sigils tattooed on her to be stuck there: the only people who even knew or cared she existed were....yeah.

"I hated them," she says in a sudden rush, like she's confessing to something worse than murder.

When he looks at her, she's staring at the floor. "Uh, yeah," he agrees, wondering if he's supposed to reassure her that's okay or something. He can do that. "I mean, Erica tried to kill you and Micah--"

"Not them," she interrupts, then wrinkles her nose. "I mean, not _just_ them. The second class." She peers up at him warily when he doesn't respond. "You--aren't as horrified as I expected."

"I can try," he offers. "Can't promise to be convincing, though. All of them?"

"All of them," she agrees, making herself comfortable. "I can even tell you why on an individual as well as collective basis."

He nods; why not? "Go for it."

"Amanda, for being good at everything and I mean _everything_ ," she starts with the obvious gimme. "She walked by, people noticed and were justifiably terrified; she was on the field, everyone stopped to watch, or hide if you were the enemy, of course."

"Of course," he agrees, wondering where that quiver in his voice is coming from.

"Like, how do you hate someone just for being themselves?" she continues resentfully. "And being hot the whole time, that's bullshit. And James--God, I hated him. He'd make terrible jokes, but everyone thought he was hysterical--why? He always laughed before he could finish the punchline!"

Dean flashes back to that day he came home to his living room filled with stoned people and the way Cas looked at James. "I always hated guys like that."

"Lena--not as witty as she thinks she is," Alicia continues venomously. "And if Mark could learn the difference between 'explaining something' and 'so condescending he's lucky I didn't rack him', that'd be great. Penn and her--"

"Giggling," Dean says, nodding. Cas mentioned that, too. That's gotta be annoying, now that he thinks about it.

"Joe's 'totally everyone's buddy' shtick, Zack's 'woe as me, hot guys are fighting over me', Sean actually falling for it, and Mira...." It takes him a moment to realize that sound is Alicia grinding her teeth as she glares at the floor.

He's so glad he's not the floor right now. "Mira?" he prompts, surreptitiously checking the tile for Alicia-glare-based cracks; there aren't any (yet) and that's a genuine goddamn surprise.

"Mira," she agrees, eyes narrowing, and Dean's aware of a weird tickle starting in his throat. "I _loathed_ her. She'd show off her routines and everyone thought she was small and adorable and so fucking talented, ooh, however do you do those things, must be magic. It was worse watching her, sometimes; we had the same classes as kids, so it was like a tinier, prettier, more talented, more well-adjusted, more flexible, more awesome me who could still nail a round off, three backflips, and a double layout at eleven at night on bare dirt; what was that shit? Salt in the wound?"

Before he realizes what's happening, he bursts into laughter. Horrified, he tries to choke it back, but it's a lost cause: _salt in the wound_ , Christ. Alicia jerks her head up to glare at him, mouth working silently before she makes a sound like a squeezed kitten and collapses against his shoulder, giggling so hard it's just on the edge of hysterical. Fair enough: he's there, too.

"You wouldn't think," she says between helpless giggles, "I could think less of myself. But silently hoping Mira landed on her face--just _once_ , was that so much to ask?--proved how very wrong I was. Educational, am I right?"

"Story of my life." He doesn't need Dean the former for this one; he's just the latest and most dramatic on a list that started with Dad. "My brother--he went to college," he hears himself say. "I was so pissed, could have _killed him_ for leaving me and Dad. His senior year, I went to see him, and...."

"Hot girlfriend, awesome apartment, bright future?" Alicia asks in the voice of depressed personal experience. "'Look upon all the ways my life is awesome while I count them for you? Can you count that high?'"

"Shitty student housing." An _apartment_ , a place he _lived_ , a home. A girlfriend, someone who'd he'd never have to lie to or leave. Friends, a history he was writing himself, a future he'd decided for himself, a _life_. "A full ride to Stanford: he was going to be a lawyer. Did I mention that? Salt--"

"--in the fucking _wound_ ," she finishes for him. "Tell me you at least lurked in the shadows and jumped him, got some feelings out. I've found ambush does wonders for my mood, fact."

"Caught me at it and put me on my ass in like, a minute." Alicia's arm slides around him for a comforting hug, which he appreciates. "It wasn't then...no, it _was_ then," he corrects himself impatiently. "I just didn't want to admit it."

"You see what you could have been." Her voice drops to a whisper. "Who you could have been. And you wonder why you didn't even try."

It occurs to him that in no world should anyone _not_ be drinking heavily during a conversation like this. Christ, there isn't even alcohol in the goddamn room.

"Brother? I can beat you there," she says. "You know who I hated most of all?"

That's an easy one. "Vera."

She lifts her head, eyes tear bright. "Shittiest thing in the world, am I right? I was one the people who tried to kill her, and I hated her for that, too."

He tightens the arm around her shoulder.

"She had everything. My husband beat me up for fun; her girlfriend thought Vera stumbling was a world-stopping event and fuck everyone's lives if she got so much as bruised during training. My best friend--" Her voice breaks, and beneath his arm, he feels her tense. "My best friend fucked me over; hers is in love with her and thinks everything she does is wonderful. Debra and Micah were both out with Erica and Heath that day on patrol," she interrupts herself. "I resented her for that, too; crazy, am I right? If Debra had just shoved Micah at the Croat or whatever happened...like, what the fuck, Vera, your girlfriend could have made my life a thousand percent better if she just...."

Alicia shakes herself.

"Yeah, I hated Vera. Vera was sad--justifiably, Debra was dead, it was awful, I said this was shitty, right? Consider that a blanket disclaimer--and three people plus Cas to comfort and hover and make her feel better. Vera has problems in class? Special midnight tutorials just for her by the other woman in love with her."

"To be fair, it was for her, Joe, and a couple of others." She looks up at him despairingly. "Sorry. I mean, what the fuck?"

"Boom," she says, but now she just sounds tired. "She was late, one day. After training ended, I mean, during first week of the two month thing. I was--I don't even remember, there was a dummy involved and I was having feelings? Ten minutes late, maybe, but everything stopped; Cas, Amanda, and like, six people went looking for her. I get why," she adds, like she's offering what she knows is a terrible defense. "I mean, paranoia as survival trait, it works; they watched out for each other. I got that, but---Cas actually brought her physically back and deposited her by Joe. She was glaring the whole time, like, what a burden it is that people care about me enough to worry when my bathroom break takes too long. Baby, let me tell you about two weeks in that fucking cabin and no one even dropping by to see if I was alive." She stiffens, wrapping her arms around herself. "Or say hi. That would have been nice, too."

"Alicia--"

"Sorry," she says quickly. "I didn't know I was still kinda cranky about that." Before Dean can say 'are you fucking with me?', she adds, "I'm over it, really, even the part where I recently found out Vera's also a hotter, better, smarter, practitioner-goddamn-nurse shaped me, who also single-handedly saved our leader's life. I brought many books, though." She looks at him solemnly. "And sterilized many things, also super useful. It helped. Cas told me so."

"Thank you," he says, nodding. "Should have said that before; sorry about that."

She smiles, not quite convincing but damned if she doesn't try. "You're welcome."

"So gotta know," he starts, not sure why he's even asking except that he wants to know. "Why did you say yes when Cas asked you if you wanted to try the knife dancing thing?"

"Because he asked." She ducks her head, but not before he catches the flush spreading across her cheeks. "It was so weird. The guy I tried to kill, he knew who I was from a glance at me hiding in some very concealing bushes like--no idea, something weirder than a flasher. Creepier, too: doing it while silently resenting everyone, come on. He even knew my name--didn't expect that at all." He nods, throat tight. "If Cas had asked me to throw myself on the wooden blade he was holding, I might have actually done it. Instead, he asked me if I wanted to try, so I did that instead."

Cas left something out when he told Dean about this, but it probably didn't even occur to him. "You didn't know it was supposed to be hard."

"I thought Amanda was just fucking off because she didn't like knives and Cas was making her," she admits. "Cas's expression when I was done, though--that was a clue."

"And then you did what, thirteen other dances to be sure?" She giggles. "Come on, you were just showing off, admit it."

"Damn straight," she retorts. "You watch Amanda being fucking awesome at everything with what looked like minimal effort and adorable Mira second in goddamn Nationals being super impressive for a week straight--you know she missed Olympic qualification by one bad balance beam routine? Such bullshit--you get a little competitive." She sighs dejectedly. "Fourth intermediate. Couldn't keep on beat, pissed me off so much, but I knew how to deal with it: work and a lot of it. I didn't even realize I was that out of shape, do you believe it?"

Dean reviews Chitaqua's residents for the concept of 'out of shape' and finds nothing. "You're kidding."

"Please," she says, and actually _rolls her eyes_. "Even the three month training, that was _nothing_ compared to my schedule growing up," she scoffs. "My parents put me in everything--possibly to minimize interaction with me, who knows: dance, gymnastics, figure skating, you name it, I was doing it. When I decided to try competitive cheerleading, that's when things got interesting. Sixteen hour days starting an hour before dawn in the weight room before warm-ups, dance, choreography--that was kind of almost a break--then off to the gym, my coach riding my ass and then me riding my squad's ass until I went to bed--more like 'fall helplessly onto relatively flat surface not even picky because fuck showers I can't feel my legs', but you get the idea. School year--not better, but class added variety."

"Cheerleading has _coaches_?"

"My parents hired me my own," she tells him. "You don't make head at fifteen and lead your squad to first in state three years in a row on your can-do attitude. Only practice, a strong work ethic, utter misery, and physical pain on a daily basis can get those kind of admittedly very impressive results. Also, ice packs: never leave home without 'em, I always say." She heaves a sigh. "I was so out of shape, Dean--that intermediate was _nothing_. Easy to fix: apply work ethic to practice and go."

Dean wonders if you can become exhausted by proxy just listening to someone describe what sounds like a creative way to make someone torture themselves and like it. "So you came back the next night to keep going."

"I did," she agrees. "I mean, I would have anyway--this was fun, which I didn't even know things could be anymore, and Cas was like, five thousand times nicer than Coach--"

"Was your coach a literal demon?" he demands, horrified.

"In retrospect," she answers, frowning, "yeah, he probably was; can't knock his method, though. But--I also came back because Cas--he asked me to. Amanda offered bribes--really good ones, fuck sexuality, I'd heard stories about her and no lie, a great time would have been had by all--but Cas just asked. But like it was important that I said yes." She looks at him. "You know?"

She wasn't invisible anymore. "Yeah." Clearing his throat, he decides to just ask. "Micah and Erica didn't--uh, try to stop you?"

She snorts. "Oh yeah. They talked to me--separately, of course--and they threatened me, like I cared. They couldn't kill me, not after what happened at the cabin, so what was left?" She laughs quietly, shaking her head. "There was nothing they could do to me that came close to what I'd done to myself. And it wasn't like they did anything but talk. Eventually, it hit me why; they _couldn't_ do anything. I was at the training field every night, right under Cas's eye--I was _expected_ there." 

Her voice changes into something that hurts to hear: wonder. "Cas would wait for me to arrive, and if I was late, he'd ask why and wait for me to answer. Before we started, he'd ask about my day, what happened, if I was injured on duty. If I didn't tell him--I did that once," she interrupts herself. "Only once, though. I--my side, just a bruised rib, but it hadn't happened on duty and I didn't think...anyway, I missed a step, and Cas saw--I don't know, but he stopped me and asked who I'd rather have examine me in the future before and after each session, him or Amanda. And I should know he checked Amanda daily and it was always professional or something like that, he used a lot of words. Also, I got a lecture on disappointment and losing fingers: I was _weeks_ getting over that." 

Dean doesn't smile, but he's gotta wonder if Cas borrowed one of the other Dean's speeches. "You don't say."

"I said he could do it. It was nice," she says, a smile in her voice. "He'd ask about a bruise from weeks before, or about my ankle because I'd mentioned I'd stumbled, or--it was nice. He remembered _everything_ I told him--which after the name thing, I should have seen coming--and...." She pauses for a quick breath. "Sometimes, after, Amanda would ask me to hang out with her and Risa and Vera for a couple of hours. Kamal and Jody would walk me home so they could tell me more about rollerblading--it was really cool, like figure skating with wheels, I had no idea--or Mira and I would spend hours talking about our respective coaches and showing off, as you do...." She trails off, curling more tightly into herself. "That was--that was nice, too."

He remembers Christmas Eve with Cas, Amanda, and Joe. "Yeah, I bet." Clearing his throat (again, what's with that?), he asks, "And when the two months were done?"

"I'd finished the master series with two knives," she says, eyes distant. "I'd graduated to live steel two weeks earlier, Amanda spent the first three days watching between her fingers, for one can easily lose a finger. I was missing something, though," she adds, forehead creasing in thought. "It's not enough to be fast and know all the moves like you breathe; it has to be like you're breathing them. Does that make sense?" He nods; he can guess, at least. "Nothing can teach you that but practice, and I wasn't there, not yet. I needed more time. And I was out of it." 

She's quiet for a moment before continuing. "The last day, I said thank you, and Cas gave me the practice blade I'd used in training and my first two real blades: perfect size, perfect weight, perfect everything, and had never been used before. No idea where he got them. Then he drew the circle, told Amanda to call the time, and invited me inside for one dance. The point...." She swallows. "I had to blood each knife, but the cuts had to be shallow, only enough to draw blood, nothing else. Not easy. He made two hits--and so did I. He probably threw it, but even Amanda wasn't sure, though granted, looking through her fingers obscured the view." 

He would, too.

"It's easy to kill," she says. "Really easy. That's the funny thing; it's easy, you need skill, yeah but it's nothing compared to avoiding it, that's the real test. He told me it was ritual--the first time you use your blade, you blood it on your greatest enemy, your most trusted friend, or yourself, who, because this is Cas, explained could be both or either, but never neither: that's a quote, by the way." She takes a deep breath. "I went home, life went on, duty was duty, Micah regained the ability to unexpectedly lose his temper--but not as often, because 'private' wasn't easy, with people coming by to see if I wanted to hang out and me not always being there--and I would stay awake at night thinking how not only was I a murderer and an attempted murderer and how no one would probably like me all that much if they found out about either of those, I _still_ didn't know what I was missing in the master series. Self-pity and a lot of it, is what I'm saying. One night, it occurred to me at least one of those I could try and fix, so I got up, got my blades, and started out the door--and Micah tried to stop me."

Tried. "And you stabbed him?" Christ, he didn't realize how much he was looking forward to this part.

"First we talked--at least, I said 'move' and he said 'no', but more words and some physical persuasion--and believe it or not, that might have convinced me. Then he grabbed my right wrist, and as it turns out, I was holding a knife in that hand; who saw that coming?" Slowly, she starts to smile. "Didn't even think about it: kicked his feet out from under him, put my first knife in his thigh and held the second one at his throat. It was me, though; that was the weird part. It was the me that for two months, I kept leaving on the training field every night; why did I do that? I told Micah he had until dusk to leave Chitaqua, or I'd find his femoral two inches above his dick and watch him bleed out. And I meant it."

"Good," he says, meeting her eyes and sharing her satisfaction.

"Then I left. Went to the practice field and worked on the first of the master series again until a couple of hours before dawn," she says. "Went home--no Micah--and went to bed, slept like a baby. Spent the next day on the training field for more practice, went home, no Micah, but I was tired, so I just went to bed." She shrugs. "When I reported to the infirmary for duty at dawn, Darryl told me Micah limped out of camp--well, in a jeep, I guess--at dusk the day before. The way he looked at me...." 

"He knew how Micah got that limp."

"Yeah," she says, voice edged with pleased malice. "Micah told him while he fixed him up. His face, Dean--it didn't make up for that medical report and two weeks in that cabin, but it was a nice down payment, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah," he says, grinning at her. "I do." 

"When I went to the mess for lunch, I found out everyone knew. And it hit me--Micah was gone, and Stephanie--she went with him." She wets her lips. "She stayed with a man who unexpectedly lost his temper like a lot, went to the salon every six weeks because he liked blondes--God, I actually went along with that for almost nine years, do you believe it?--and killed babies, and then tried to kill more people, and--and she was gone. Alicia, though--Alicia was something of a mystery; I hadn't had a lot of time getting to know her. But, I did know she was very good with knives and people liked her, both awesome things, and I wanted to find out what else she was.

"Amber didn't like who she was living with; I said she could move in with me," she continues. "Then Brenda had a fight with her boyfriend, and I had two roommates to hang out with. Amanda and I sparred twice a week; once in her specialty, once in mine. I learned surgery from Darryl and how to sew from Vera and how to drink from Ana and how to conspire against my team leader with Joe. I practiced every day I was in the camp, and after a month, I knew I had the master dances _down_. Cas came out on the training field every night for a week to help me build my dance, the one that was all of them, first with wood, then with live steel. Then I seduced him the last night because he was hot, I'd heard from many reliable sources it would be incredibly fun, and--I could do that now. I could do anything or everything, whatever I wanted. So that's what I did." She looks at him ruefully. "You probably won't believe this, but--by then, I'd forgotten all about Stephanie. It wasn't that hard; we were nothing alike. She was afraid all the time, and tired, and weak--"

"She wasn't weak," Dean interrupts, holding her eyes. " _You_ weren't weak. You couldn't have done anything you did after what happened at Cas's cabin if you were weak."

He looks at her, trying to see blonde hair, a lawyer's gorgeous wife whose friends were sleeping with the husband that beat her and whose parents didn't care, who dressed up for lawyer parties (a circle of Hell all on its own) and pretended this was supposed to be a happy life--and can't. He can see the teenage cheerleader who worked to be the best at what she did, though, the EMT whose shifts included patching up guys on the sidewalk while under fire who gave no fucks about her manicure, and the woman who went to the hospital nursery because those kids didn't have anyone else to give them mercy. She wasn't weak, not by a longshot, and he hates everyone who made her believe such an obvious lie.

"When I saw Micah outside Ichabod...I didn't even think about it, just reached for my knife and waited for him to get in range," she whispers. "Five feet, Dean: I keep thinking about that. Five. Fucking. Feet." She pauses. "Not to hide anything, I didn't even think about that. I just...."

"You wanted to kill him," Dean says. "And Stephanie, once and for all." 

"Yeah," she breathes. "That'd be it."

Dean tries to think of what to say, but his mind's blank. "Kyle," he blurts out, relieved. "I forgot to tell you."

"I heard you talking to Joe and Amanda." She frowns at the floor. "I was almost out the door and then realized I forgot the notebook and--anyway, heard it. Thank you."

"You didn't think I'd do it." It'd be a goddamn miracle to even get benefit of the doubt there.

"I believed you," she answers, oblivious to her extempore performance of a miracle in three words. "That's why I went back to get the notebook in the first place, so I could check something before I talked to you. It was nice to hear, though."

Right, that. "So what did you lie about?"

Alicia straightens, composing herself, and he doesn't wonder anymore how she does it. She's been doing that shit for a long time. "So what I lied about--Erica's plan, such as it is, is still unknown but--but I think she might accept a counteroffer, or at least think about it. So not a lie so much as a very big omission to my assessment earlier."

He honestly doesn't need to even ask, but why not? "A counteroffer."

She nods. "Me."

* * *

He thinks how to put this tactfully, then realizes that in this case, even if he could, he shouldn't.

"This room would be a miracle, yes," he says. "It could also be called a prison. Which means it will also need manual controls for you to adjust the strength as well as an override that will shut it down entirely."

"What? Why--"

"And the shutdown mechanism must be both well-hidden and easy for you to access so you can easily do it yourself, even if bound."

"Bound?" she asks in alarm, voice rising. "Why would I want to--"

"Non-recreationally."

Alison reddens. "Uh, I didn't mean that I, uh--" Castiel raises an eyebrow, and she laughs, shaking her head. "Sorry, forgot who I was talking to. Bucket list?"

"More a hobby, I think," he answers, matching her smile and attempting (with very little success) not to imagine Dean thus on display in their bed. He takes a moment to ponder the libido's inexplicable inability to understand appropriate time and context; this is ridiculous.

"You were saying?" Alison says innocently, chin in her hands and grinning mockingly. "Faraday cage, bondage...."

That, yes. "I'll also need to teach you how to break a Faraday cage with the power of your mind alone." He tries not to slump, but really, his to-do list is far too long already (and these jeans are becoming uncomfortable). "Which means I have to work out how that can be done."

Alison frowns, settling back in her chair. "In case someone locked me in there. You think anyone would?"

"It doesn't matter if anyone would," he says evasively. "It only matters that they _could_. But yes, it's inevitable; it will happen, so best plan for it. You're a psychic, and your abilities make you an asset--and that means to someone, somewhere, you are also a liability. Eventually, someone--from intentions good to terrible--will want to imprison you. That Missouri and Pamela--if I'm correct, and I am--discovered this, and I was able to extrapolate it from simply knowing they were psychics who had normal lives, then someone else will. Especially those motivated to find out, for whatever reason."

"Not kill me?"

"I'm certain some will want to, yes, but far more worrying will be those who want to use you," he tells her. "And before you state nothing could make you, I can think of several things that would make me if I had your abilities."

"Dean," she says, nodding. "Well, for me, Teresa."

"Manuel and his family, Tony and his, Sudha and hers, Neeraja, Dolores....the list goes on. For that matter, this town."

She looks down. "Not a people person, remember?"

"It's different when they're your own." She gives him a sour look but doesn't deny it. "However, it's equally likely that fear would be the motivator. Someone who is afraid but thinks imprisoning you for the safety of the world would absolve them of having to commit murder."

She makes a face. "I see it, though right now, that doesn't seem too bad."

"Suicide by ex-angel sounds like a good idea right now," he retorts. "At this moment, I'm skeptical you are capable of having a good idea, and I mean that in the most sympathetic way possible."

She rolls her eyes, which he takes as agreement.

"And in case you're still not sure, how much do you want to be a very useful item of clothing for a very inspired demon?" She winces. "This also gives a measure of safety to whoever works on this; Teresa's bond with you will protect her mind, I can't be read and because of that, neither can Dean. It's everyone else's mind who will be a problem. In this much, we're fortunate this can't be implemented immediately, since I'm as unsure as you are about the ethics of removing memories in a case like this, with or without permission."

"There's that, yeah." She sighs. "So yeah, I get this isn't a now thing. We're talking what, a few weeks--"

"As soon as the barrier is up, depending on travel conditions, Wichita should have something we can use temporarily," he interrupts, and Alison straightens in her chair. "A team from Chitaqua and one from Ichabod can accompany you and search while you rest. It's effectively abandoned, so at your current range--and for at least two more expansions--you shouldn't be able to hear anyone. I'll leave orders to let you sleep for as long as you wish and a warning you have my permission to give them nightmares for the rest of their lives if they wake you up."

Alison nods shakily. "Three days? Three _days_?"

"At most," he says, mentally reviewing the teams: Sean, Christina, James, or Damiel would be best; Teresa and Manuel will select the Ichabod team, and it's probable Teresa will accompany them, which assures that Chitaqua's and Ichabod's teams will answer to a competent commander. Perhaps more should go, now that he considers it; though it's likely many of the refugees will wish to stay, experience with humans suggests most will want to return to their own homes, and it would be recommended to assure adequate supplies are available for both the town and those who wish to leave (and vehicles, he remembers uneasily; most of those driven here are now part of the wall). "Assuming we all survive--"

"Oh, we're surviving," she says flatly. "I'm not dying before I get at least one good night's sleep and thirty recreational minutes with my fiancée; that's bullshit right there." He starts to ask why the second is urgent when he remembers Alison is an excellent projector and would probably feel--awkward--if she accidentally did that during sexual relations. Humans feel--that, he reflects, baffled yet again by the ways of humanity. "Three days," she says in a different voice, and he can almost see her drawing up strength from stores already unacceptably depleted. "I can do this."

"It doesn't matter if you can or can't," he says. "Christina's and Sean's teams will be assigned to you for the next forty-eight hours in alternating shifts until the barrier is up again. Their orders are to remove you from Ichabod by any means necessary should you indicate you're losing control, place a minimum of thirty miles between you and the nearest town, and stay with you until either Teresa, Manuel, Dean, or I come to get you. Which," he reflects, "could actually be Wichita, which come to think would be highly convenient. We'll send them in that direction."

"But--Cas, if I lose control too fast, they have to...." She hesitates. "Take care of the problem."

"You'll call for me," he says. "And I'll come to you."

She wets her lips. "Cas, you were right. There are some things you don't ask--"

"To protect you."

Her eyebrows draw together. "From what?"

"From everything and everyone that might threaten your life," he answers. "Including yourself, should the worst occur."

She stares at him, lips parted on an untaken breath.

"Whatever you do, you are and will always be Alison," he says. "If you forget that, I'll be there to remind you until you remember it for yourself."

"If I--" It's barely a whisper. "Why?"

"You're my friend," he answers. "Whatever you do, you are and will remain that. If you forget, I'll remind you of that as well."

The knock on the door is a welcome distraction; Castiel gets to his feet to answer it, smiling at Walter. "You have the cameras?"

"I do," he agrees with a wide smile. "And the TV. Got 'em in the conference room downstairs. You need me to install them?"

"I would appreciate it," he agrees, turning to see Alison staring at him. "If you'll excuse me, duty calls. Have a good evening."

She blinks before saying, knee-jerk, "You, too."

* * *

"No."

"Yeah, I figured you'd say that," she says and he realizes belatedly this is like Cas: too fucking much thinking. Leave her alone, she might think them into a solution no one saw coming to epic problems (that they also didn't see coming), or straight to goddamn hell, you _just don't know_. "Okay, hear me out."

"What was I doing before?"

She makes a face. "Right. Look--I didn't know about the Crossroads, she never even mentioned it, never took me there. She took all her team--including my husband--but not me. She used everything she could to make me say yes, but she didn't put a gun to my head. You see where I'm going with this?"

"That she was crazy?" Alicia looks disappointed, and he relents. "She cared about you."

She did care, as much as she could for anyone, and that's the worst part; Alicia was someone like her, trapped just as much as Erica was with first a shitty SO and then in that goddamn basement; responsible for deaths, Erica blaming herself for her family's death and Alicia giving mercy to those kids; unlike her family, unlike _herself_ , she could protect Alicia. She could watch out for her, get her on her team and away from Micah, drop in when off-duty and make it impossible for him to unexpectedly lose his temper, scare him to fucking death. Erica cared, and it probably surprised her how much...and that still wasn't enough. 

"Yeah," Alicia agrees, bringing him back to the present. "Dean, if I could distract her that much in the middle of her epic Croat attack, I can do it now."

"Distract her, that part I get," Dean explains. "I'm falling down on your plans after that."

"After what?" she asks in confusion.

"That's what I'm talking about," he says. "Is there an 'after' here for you?"

"Dean, I didn't say yes to attempted murder, have sex with the almost victim like a lot--and you, for that matter--and continue to hide it for two and a half years without what one might call a super-flexible conscience," she says, and gotta give her credit, he can't exactly work out the location of the lie without some quiet time and maybe a drink. "Obviously, I am not racked with guilt, you know what I mean?"

"Oh yeah," he agrees, just to see what she comes up with next. "You rolled with it."

The blue eyes narrow in suspicion before they clear. "I have a proven, very lively interest in continuing to live, you get what I mean? I'm not going out there to die for my sins."

"You planned your own _execution_."

"Yeah that." She makes a face, but this is Alicia and she doesn't disappoint. "I had a bad day, much stress, almost despair does that. I'm over it; exile works for me, very progressive of you in our brand new world. Full, public confession, a trial, judgement of guilty, you're merciful and commute the sentence to--"

"Ten day ration pack and the border," he finishes, impressed despite himself. "Not bad. Here's the thing--"

"Then you don't have to make yourself shoot me," she adds, and he forgets to breathe. "Some things--I wasn't thinking before, it was kind of a dick move, am I right? Execution isn't murder, but the person who pulls the trigger is the only one who can say how much that distinction matters. Sorry about that."

Dean breathes again, but it's just reflex.

"Anyway," she continues. "I really don't want to die--as my actions up to now illustrate--and in any case, me dying would miss the point of this exercise considerably."

"The point," he says blankly, then finds where this left off. "Distraction, right. Okay, distract her. Why?"

"The question is 'from what'," she answers confidently. "'From what', you would ask now if I gave you time, but we don't have much and we need to start soon--"

"Start _what_?"

"I'll distract Erica while you go outside the ward line," she answers. "Drive to the first Crossroad--by my calculations, about a mile and change from the Eastern Gate--summon Crowley, and tell him to come pack up his misbehaving minions and take them home."

Dean looks at her, not even sure where to start with that one. " _What_?"

Before she can answer, there's a knock at the door. Glancing at Alicia, he waits for her nod. "What?"

Jeremy pokes his head in. "Joe said to tell you fifteen minute warning; Micah's on his way."

"I'll be right down." He waits to close the door before standing up and looks down to see Alicia take a deep breath. "You're kidding, right?"

"It'll work," she says. "If nothing else--"

"You get yourself killed," he interrupts. "And how the hell am I supposed to get Crowley to help us? The operative word here is 'help'; for all we know--"

"It's not authorized, he won't like her fucking around, and you'll think of something to do with those two things," Alicia says quickly. "So, you ready for Micah's perp walk? I am."

"You don't have to be there."

She nods. "I know. I still gotta do it."

"Then you know you're not doing it alone." He extends a hand, and Alicia hesitates, looking up at him. "Not weak," he says quietly, and she puts her hand in his, calluses rough against his palm as he pulls her up. "Let's go."

"Wait." She tips her head as she looks into his eyes. "I need to tell Cas. Now, before--before I lose my nerve."

"Alicia--"

"I get you're trying to think how not to and still get this plan by him," she says. "You could, _maybe_ \--"

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"--because he trusts you," she finishes brutally, and Dean shuts his mouth. "You shouldn't have had to keep this from him in the first place."

"I didn't do it for you."

"That was true before," she answers, voice barely a whisper. "But not now. You can't hide this, not from Cas; you don't deserve to have to live with that. He doesn't deserve any of this, but all the options are shitty. It always chases you, Dean, your past, and I've had a good run, but that's all it was. It caught me, and I'm not running anymore; time to get this done."

"What happened to you--"

"So? There's been worse; I _saw_ it. I was in Ichabod after that attack, and I didn't see any of them give the fuck up and decide to throw in with murder because of their goddamn _feelings_. I won't go back to that, I'm not--I won't be that person. I'm not Micah and I won't be fucking Erica; there is no excuse. I have to tell him."

"You're not telling him," Dean says quietly. "I am."

"Dean--"

"It was my decision," he says. "I ordered you not to. I'll tell him."

Her mouth works silently. "Dean...."

He doesn't think about it, easing her into his arms as she starts to shake. "Breathe," he says hoarsely. "It'll be okay."

"Then say that I couldn't, that--that you had to because I wouldn't," she whispers against his shoulder. "Okay? Don't take the blame for it. It was me, and--it was all me. Promise?"

"I will," he lies, tightening his arms. "It'll be okay. I promise."

* * *

To his surprise, the lobby's clear of everyone but Jeremy and Joelle, both standing near Joe by the door and looking hopeful. Pausing on the first floor balcony, he calls down, "Cas back yet?"

"Downstairs with Walter," Joe answers. "They're just finishing up with the cameras. Said it'll be about a minute"

They not only interrogate people, they record it now. Okay, then. "Awesome." He looks on Jeremy and Joelle. "You two," he says, jerking his head toward the mess, and looking disgruntled, they reluctantly leave, feet almost visibly dragging. "Everyone else?"

"Gave the order to stay away," Joe says, looking amused. "I blamed you."

Cas and Walter emerge from the hall leading to the basement, talking quietly, before Walter nods, slapping Cas's shoulder, and Dean grins at the look on his face. As Walter starts toward the door, he glances up and sees Dean. "Everything's up and running," he says. "Call me if you have any problems."

"Will do, and thanks," he answers, and with a wave, Walter leaves as Cas takes the steps two at a time. "Good job," he says when Cas joins them.

"The television is located in the unnecessarily large coat closet next door." He gives Dean a baffled look. "Why is there a coat closet by a former file room in the basement?"

"Probably so you can hang up your coat before going to the dungeon I hope to God we don't find down there," he retorts, distracted by wondering what the hell is up with this building.

At a knock on the door--loud enough that it's obvious that it's a warning--Joe waits for his nod before opening it. Amanda comes in first, coolly impassive, but even from here, he picks up the low grade anger and from the way her hands rub against her thighs and stroke lovingly over her gun...yeah. Micah has that effect on people.

Ana and Evelyn come next, with Micah behind them--hands zip tied behind his back, oh, he _owes_ Naresh here--and a disgruntled look on his face, followed by Natalie and Rachel. Dean takes him in; shoulders slightly hunched, a lot of the smug is gone, which he approves of very much, and he looks a little more rumpled than an easy two street walk would justify. Also--

"Still has a limp," Alicia murmurs in satisfaction.

As they come to a stop in the middle of the lobby, Micah throws resentful looks at Evelyn and Natalie when they come up on either side of them. He checks them quickly, and there's definitely a 'done with this shit' going on with them, but this being Micah, the only surprise is they're not (openly) displaying a desire for immediate homicide.

"Oh God," Alicia breathes, and despite the strain, he sees a faint smile curing her mouth. "You sent a team of _women_? No wonder he's pissed."

He glances down at the lobby and then at Alicia; right, that shit goes hand in hand with beating up their wives. "Wish I'd done it on purpose now."

"You didn't?" She cocks her head. "Huh."

"What?"

"Nothing," she answers, and Dean turns his attention back to the lobby, where Joe's just closed the door. Glancing at him (Dean shakes his head, let Micah stew for a few seconds) he goes to Amanda. They move away a few feet to talk, leaving Micah surrounded by a team (of women) who give no shits about him. He half-hopes Micah takes it into his head to be really stupid and try to pull something; Ana has perfected the 'bored while throwing someone to the ground' expression, which he's beginning to think is a special class you take when you join the Marines (Dad could do that, too).

Micah shifts impatiently, then takes a step forward and meets Ana's hand and looks like he's not sure whether to be insulted she did it or horrified to realize he's actually been pushed back an entire step. "Joe, what's the hold up?"

Joe ignores him so thoroughly even Dean's impressed, grinning at something Amanda says; he wonders if Amanda's sharing her store of seriously filthy jokes that she usually saves for when she's drunk and breaks into giggles before the punchline. Her and James.

"Dean," Cas says quietly, "what are we doing right now?"

"He thinks he's important," Dean answers, leaning his elbows on the balcony. "If he knows what Erica's doing, he also knows we're on a deadline. Bet he thinks that makes him the most important person in the world, because he has all the answers."

Alicia nods, eyes fixed on Micah as he looks between his guards angrily. "Not a good way to start an interrogation."

"Exactly." Micah glares at Ana's back, then at Joe and Amanda. Joe's eyes flicker to Dean, and he nods, pushing off the balcony. "Be right back."

Micah's too involved in glaring at Joe and Amanda to even notice until he's halfway down the stairs, head jerking around. "Dean, what--"

He waves a hand at Micah, going to Joe and Amanda. "Give you any trouble?" he asks softly, and Amanda rolls her eyes. "Who'd Cas assign to guard him?"

"Mark and Gary," Joe answers.

Dean slaps his shoulder. "Good man. Amanda, any reason not to leave him in the room alone to think about his sins?"

She shrugs. "Table, four chairs: he can't do much, and I did a strip search before we left; he's got nothing and I do mean nothing. Naresh kept his belt."

Which would explain why Micah's rumpled. "Give him fifteen minutes, and you two start with him," he decides in a moment of inspiration; Joe sighs and Amanda slumps, perfect. "When do you want me to check in?"

"Give us at least thirty minutes, so about an hour or so?" Joe checks for Amanda's nod. "Tell Gary or Mark to call us out of the room. May want to replace us both, actually, make Micah wonder what we're doing."

"Got it." Nodding at them both, he starts for the stairs again, pacing himself for casual and give Micah all the time he needs to--

"Dean!" Micah snaps, and Dean pauses on the first step, turning around. "What's going on?"

"They'll explain," he says, and turning back around, continues up the stairs. 

"Ana, this way," Amanda says, and Dean reaches the top just in time to see Rachel giving Micah a not at all gentle push. He stumbles a step, eyes fixed on Alicia almost leaning over the balcony.

"Wait," he says, taking a step toward the balcony and Evelyn neatly pushes him back. "Stop it! Alicia!" 

"You ready?" he asks Alicia and Cas, jerking his head; they'll use the back stairs. From the lobby comes the sound of shuffling, and Micah shouts Alicia's name as she turns away.

"Sure." 

"Alicia!" Micah yells, and then there's the faint sound of a grunt. Trying not to smile, he leads Alicia and Cas a little down the hall before turning to face them.

"Alicia, where's your team?" he asks.

"Volunteer Services," she says with a ghost of her usual smile. "We're still running short, so...." She trails off, the echo of grief she's barely had time to feel, much less deal with in her voice: Andy, yeah. 

"Be available for the next couple of hours," he says, nodding a dismissal before turning to Cas. "I need to talk to you. Meet me in our room, okay? I'm going to leave word with Jeremy in case we're needed."

Cas nods easily, starting down the hall to the back stairs, and Dean doesn't pretend even to himself that's not a short reprieve as he starts for the front stairs.

* * *

When he opens the door, Cas is--fuck his life--just finished straightening the bed. Smoothing down the quilt, he looks up at Dean with a smile that fades immediately, and Dean wonders what's showing on his face right now. "Dean?"

"Sit down." Looking around their room, Dean takes a deep breath as Cas gingerly sits down on the edge of the bed. "Alicia's got a plan."

Cas nods, waiting.

"It might work," he adds, because he thinks it just might. "She's going to try and distract Erica while I summon Crowley."

"That sounds rather suicidal," Cas comments, shifting back against the headboard as Dean perches on the foot of the bed, feeling lost. "Erica's reaction to Alicia two days ago was unusual, yes, but--"

"That part'll work," Dean interrupts. Two days ago--it was _two days ago_ he found out; it feels like forever. "Cas, there's something--I found out something. I didn't tell you, and that's on me. I didn't know how."

"All right." Dean makes himself look at him, feeling sick at the worry on his face. "Are you okay?"

No, he's not. "After--after we got inside the walls after the attack," Dean starts, holding Cas's eyes, "Alicia told me something." Just get this out. "It's about what happened at your cabin two years ago. She was part of it."

* * *

It doesn't get easier; if anything, every word gets harder, and the worst part is, Cas doesn't say a goddamn thing. From the talk inside Ichabod's walls two days ago to the one today, Dean barrels through on sheer desperation; if he stops talking, he may not be able to start again, not with the searing memory of Cas's expression when he told him Alicia was one of the assassins. He's thinks he's going to see that until the day he dies.

When he's done, he doesn't have any time to be relieved; like the professional he is, Cas starts putting together the relevant portions and ruthlessly exploring the connection between Alicia's past with Erica and now, the obsession of a demon for the humanity they left behind in the people they once knew. Dean answers each question without hesitation, exploring territory he's avoided for years; his memories of Hell may be limited, but like knows like and Erica's actions are as familiar as sliding into a well-worn suit. 

Sitting back against the headboard, Cas frowns, eyes distant. "I didn't realize that was common among demons when confronted with their past on earth."

"It's not," Dean says, flexing his right hand restlessly, trying to get rid of the phantom pressure against his palm. "The rack uses all you are; everything you've seen, everything you've done, everything you felt, and it twists it all until you break. Nine times out of ten, it burns it out of you, but the tenth time...it loves that, did you know that? That piece--it's like an open wound, just begging to be ripped apart, and it does it until it's all you are. That's the best part; when you get up, you gotta take it with you. It _is_ the you it makes on the rack." Annoyed, he makes a fist before flattening his palm against his knee. "Erica died wanting Lucifer destroyed; everything she did at Chitaqua was for that."

"And Alicia?" Cas's voice expresses nothing more than cool interest. "They were friends, I understand that, but--"

"They weren't just friends," Dean interrupts, wondering how to explain. "You don't sell your soul for anyone or anything but yourself; killing Lucifer was probably supposed to be how she made up for what happened to her family. She didn't just sacrifice a friend to get that 'yes'; she betrayed someone she was protecting, someone who trusted her. She used that trust against her."

"Like her lover did to her," Cas says, nodding. "Assuming Alicia was fully accurate, of course."

"Cas--"

"I'm simply making an observation," he interrupts, with an edge to his voice that almost makes Dean flinch. "When Alicia came to Chitaqua, we did a background check, of course. That she had anything other than a driver's license or passport was suspicious in itself; many didn't even have that."

"Best forgeries money can buy?"

"You can't buy forgeries this good," he answers. "They were meant to stand up to investigation, that much was obvious."

"She said she was working on them for a while." And he can guess why.

"Chuck's search found roughly five years' worth of information: job history, credit rating, rental history, utility bills; you can't buy a forgery this well done. Mostly in the south and southwest: I suppose whatever state she was living in wasn't anywhere near there. You said Alicia knew the state hospital well?" He nods. "That fits."

"Why?"

"Her identification traced back to a child that was in foster care in Texas when she disappeared from the public record. For roughly sixteen years, that is, until that social security number was used in east Texas roughly five years ago." Dean tries to look like he's following. "A state hospital is funded by public funds; it would be where people without insurance would be taken. Depending on the size, it may have even had at least one state employee and perhaps even a unit who could determine Medicaid eligibility for patients that came there for emergency services, such as children or pregnant women. A caseworker would have at minimum read access to everyone who had ever applied Medicaid in that state or who moved there while receiving Medicaid from another state, including those who received foster care. Alicia must have had a friend looking for her to find a record she could use, and since doubtless Texas is not her actual state of origin, that friend contacted someone in Texas.

"The social security number matched two types of Medicaid cases for the same person, one recent--at the time, opened eleven months before, and one opened twenty-two years ago; the older one was for foster care. That case was closed unable to locate after she disappeared from the group home she was living in, a presumed runaway."

"And you're sure that it's--not really her?" Dean asks slowly. 

"You seem to be, since you took her disclosures at face value," Cas answers, and Dean stops himself from wincing. "However, yes, I'm certain; that first case was far too old."

"Uh...." Dean tries and fails to work that out. "Okay, I give up; it should be old, that was what, twenty one years ago now?"

"Exactly," Cas agrees, and he just picks up the sense of satisfaction. "The original case was created in 1987, when the child entered foster care at age eight, on a serviceable but uninspiring DOS computer system, and was closed eight years later, in 1995. Starting in 2003, the state upgraded the system in stages to a Windows-based web application. Only currently active cases, those closed in the previous seven years, and closed cases for children who were still under the age eighteen at the time were flagged for importation; the rest were archived, which makes sense; why bother with historical cases with no relevance since they were no longer children?"

"Missed by a year," Dean says, nodding. "So it wasn't on the system."

"It _shouldn't_ have been; not only was it over the seven year retention limit, by 2003, the child would have been twenty-four years old; it would have failed on all import criteria. It could have been an import irregularity, yes; no system is perfect, of course," Cas muses, and Dean is reminded Cas named all the laptops in Chitaqua and Dean still hasn't taken his Microsoft Office course. "However, this particular archived record was imported exactly two weeks before a petition for a change of name was filed in Dallas, Texas, and a driver's license applied for in Corpus Christi. The coincidence was rather striking."

"You win," Dean says with a grin, impressed. "Not bad."

Cas tilts his head with a ghost of a smile that vanishes, and Dean remembers right, they're not-fighting. "If you're wondering if there's any way to verify what Alicia told you, no. She was meticulous and very, very thorough, and most importantly, she deliberately left a paper trail to further establish this identity. As I said, you can't buy forgeries this good; _real people_ with real lives do not have such a meticulously organized paper trail and history."

"Was she a blonde when she got here?"

"Dark brown, but very short. Why?" Abruptly, he stills, blue eyes dark. "She was going to escape her husband."

"Real people aren't married to a partner in a law firm and have shitty parents with a lot of disposable income." That's not a guess: the classes she took as a kid don't come cheap, especially when you have a fucking _private cheerleader coach_. He wonders how it started; one shitty night after Micah unexpectedly lost his temper, and she thought about having a different life (in Texas, but it takes all kinds). On a guess, it started as a what-if; something to get her through the day, never thinking it would work. And it did, actually, but Micah found her anyway. How?

"What you know now is far more than Chuck and I could discover," Cas says. "That would include her first name."

"And nothing about anyone named 'Stephanie' and the mass murder of seven kids on the news about three years ago?"

"No," Cas answers, and in it, Dean hears a lot of things he doesn't want to think about. He hid Alicia's complicity from Cas, because he couldn't believe she'd do it and there had to be a reason, and maybe she gave him exactly what he wanted. He'd be hiding it still if she hadn't told him to tell Cas: to protect her. From one of her victims, from _Cas_ , after telling him that he didn't always have to take care of himself, that he'd protect him. That he didn't have to be afraid everyone was after him, that he wasn't alone, because Dean had his back. Sure, Dean will protect him from everyone, except the people he likes, of course; that's different. Cas not telling the other Dean about the team leaders makes a lot of sense, come to think; Dean really liked them, too. 

"If it was pre-epidemic Croat," Cas says abruptly, "it would be suspicious if there were evidence available."

"How do you figure?" 

"If she set off the fire alarm to clear the hospital, the authorities might have used an actual fire as the cover. The building was burned, and it would be given out that it killed those children as well as a convenient method of disposing of Croat-infested bodies without moving them."

"You're saying you wouldn't have noticed a mysterious hospital fire on the news?" 

"A perfectly mundane hospital fire in an old building? Take as a given, if it were a state hospital, it was probably old," Cas answers caustically, and it belatedly occurs to Dean that sounded like he thought Cas was sleeping on the job. "Dean, think of the national news and how many tragedies would occur daily in your world; a hospital fire, even with casualties, wouldn't have made the front page of CNN. This world was the same then: we searched for the unusual and patterns of incidents, but even then, only a small percentage were we able to investigate. Three years ago, the authorities were experts at concealing outbreaks; even if any of us had noticed it, it certainly wouldn't have gained our attention." He looks briefly amused. "A female mass murder of infants, however, would have been front page news, and I promise you, that would have gained our undivided attention."

He can see it, and not just because of the convenience of 'because fire'; Micah was partner in a law firm, and in Dean's experience that meant 'money, lots of it' and almost as many lawyer friends. He can't imagine how it wouldn't be a nightmare, especially considering how long it usually took shit like that to get to trial. Years: years during which they might have to cover dozens of mini-outbreaks and that unbelievable story would become more and more believable. 

"So they'd just--ignore what Alicia did?"

"Assuming they even knew who did it; the nurse seems to have been the only witness, and if she had any sense, she disappeared before someone did that for her. Unless there were security cameras present--and in an older hospital, even in the maternity wing or the nursery, that's something of a question--they may not have even been aware of who did it." Then, with a flicker of something almost approving, "Alicia said she knew that hospital. She'd also know if there were cameras present and where, and very likely how to turn them off."

So a Croat outbreak that never happened, in a hospital that burned down, identification they have no way to trace to a real person, and no way to verify Alicia's story other than taking her at her word or ask Micah, and hey, she covered why they can't believe him, either. Except the fact that there's a warrant for her arrest, and if Erica got that from the border guard, that's something they can actually check (maybe, Joe would know). But assuming everything Alicia said was true and Cas is right about a cover-up, for _what_?

_I could hear my footsteps all the way up the steps and down the hall, like there was an echo or something._ She pulled the fire alarm; that thing is loud, and the older systems require a manual override to turn it off (or shoot it like a lot). The halls were empty; there's no way all the medical staff could have been out that fast, much less the patients. The women she saw outside the nursery were already dead; she didn't mention hearing gunshots. The blood was already coagulated and that takes time; that sound when you move one that's stuck from that isn't something you ever forget. Even given years and what trauma does to memory, the timeline is off.

Dean isn't sure if it's a relief or not when Cas says, "Tell me the plan again, as you refer to it."

"I'll drive to the East Gate," Dean starts, feeling less than encouraged by Cas's phrasing. "When I get there, Alicia will go out the West Gate and up to the ward line; her team will follow out of sight. That should get Erica's attention." 

Cas nods politely. "And if it doesn't?"

Yeah, he doesn't like this part. "I was thinking about that. If she doesn't show, there's a Crossroad past the ward line--"

"At the bottom of the hill, about a mile from Ichabod," Cas interrupts smoothly. "There's a farm road that crosses IH-Ichabod; I think we called it Point Zero, where the buses would let off their passengers for the walk to Ichabod. A shelter was erected there."

He's already committed, so might as well go for it. "Yeah."

"And there, I assume, she'll try and summon Erica," Cas muses. "And hope she doesn't get another Crossroads demon, or Crowley himself. Perhaps she can politely ask for Erica in that case?"

"Okay, yeah--"

"But assuming she does get Erica: her team will radio you with the hand units and you will go out the East Gate, proceed to the first Crossroad--roughly a mile and a half from Ichabod--in full sight of everyone with eyes--and summon Crowley," Cas continues. "Or a demon--hopefully not one of Erica's companions or even Erica herself if Alicia bores her--who will agree to kindly go and fetch Crowley for you. Then you will discuss your concerns with Crowley in a reasonable manner, and he'll helpfully take Erica and the others away. Yes, this is indeed a plan which cannot fail."

He's committed to a _shitty plan_. "Fine, it's a bad plan, but it's pretty much all we got right now. Unless you have a better idea?"

"You can't go alone," says the guy who ambled out to the Crossroad for a one-on-one chat with Crowley. I'll go with you--"

"No."

"Then you'll need two people for your escort: Amanda and Joseph." Dean--who was bracing himself for an argument--is left blinking in surprise. "Amanda because she's our best hunter, Joseph because he's already proven he can easily pick you up and restrain you without very little effort no matter how much you struggle."

"Who told you--" Right. "I told you."

"I received several colorful descriptions of events while I was--otherwise occupied," Cas says (read: screaming in agony). "It's nearly time for your planned interruption of Amanda and Joe's interrogation of Micah. Take Kamal with you to take their place, and bring them to the Situation Room so you can brief them." There's a brief pause. "And Alicia, of course. I'll meet you there in fifteen minutes. I need to do--something."

"What--" Cas is already off the bed before Dean realizes that, apparently, they're done. "Cas, wait. That's it?"

Cas turns to look at him in polite inquiry. "Is there something else?"

Yeah, a lot, actually. "Yeah. I mean--" Fuck. "I know I should have told you about Alicia before and not just dropped it on you like this." Cas nods, waiting, and okay, what goes next? He wishes Cas would give him something here: be pissed, ask why, maybe tell him about how you don't hide shit like this, but--nothing. "I'm sorry about that."

"You had reasons to conceal it," Cas says, and he nods (it's true). "I assumed as much."

"Yeah, I did," he agrees. "So--I'm sorry."

"I understand." Then turns toward the door again.

_Going after Cas would have gotten me a bullet to the head on sight, do not pass go and talk about our feelings._

"Cas!" His shoulders stiffen before he turns back around, and Dean can see his grip on the doorknob may end badly any second now. "You're not gonna--" He wonders what's wrong with him; it's not like he wanted Cas to be pissed at him. "The escort thing. It's not that I don't want you there, but--"

"It's dangerous," he finishes for him. "To preserve our command structure, both of us shouldn't be at risk. That's only prudent. I'll stay here, in our Headquarters, where it's safe."

Dean does, in fact, hear the irony loud and clear. "Yeah."

"It's sensible," Cas agrees. "I should have thought of that myself. Is there anything else?"

_I wouldn't have risked this if it was him here, but you...you're reasonable._

"Look, you have the right to be pissed--"

"Thank you."

"For fuck's sake," Dean snaps, getting to his feet. "I fucked up! I know that!"

"Exactly what do you want from me?" The cool curiosity in Cas's voice is worse than anger could ever be. "You had reasons, presumably good ones, for your decision not to inform me that one of your lieutenants was involved in the assassination attempt on me and Vera."

" _My_ lieutenants?" Dean echoes incredulously.

"Chitaqua's lieutenants, then," Cas corrects himself. "I told you I would accept your decisions, even if I didn't agree with them, provided you listened to my objections. The latter doesn't apply in this case, but the former does and always will. Alicia is a superlative hunter and a very good team leader, both of which are very valuable to Chitaqua. You said she's shown regret for her past actions, and she's certainly not a threat to anyone in the camp. We don't have enough hunters as it is--"

"You think this is about _Chitaqua_?" Dean is on his feet before he realizes he's moved. "I didn't tell you because end game is Lucifer and what's a little attempted murder, gotta keep my eye on the ball?"

Cas looks away, and to Dean's horror, his shoulders slump tiredly. "No, I don't think that. I apologize."

Sheer horror holds Dean immobile; Cas just apologized for _him_ being an asshole. "Cas, don't fucking apologize to me for my fuck up. I should have told you."

"Yes, you should have, but this isn't the time to discuss it," Cas answers. "If you want to attempt this, we must begin preparations immediately."

He wants to say no, but one glance at the doorknob tells him keeping him here won't help. And fuck everything, he's right about the timing. "Right," he says, swallowing hard at Cas's obvious relief. "Later, okay?"

"As you wish," Cas agrees, opening the door, and like that, he's gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: spousal abuse, infanticide, medical horror. Note #2 below may also be triggering.
> 
> Note #1: So I finally found out where I read about using a Faraday cage to block psychic abilities: D Benway's [X-Manson](http://www.comicfic.net/fic/benway/xmanson02.htm), which I recommend highly. If you like documentary-style fanfic that manages to be more horrifying than outright horror, it's a must-read. Blanket statement: if you have triggers, they're probably in there.
> 
> Notes #2: Can't lie here, my other reason I decided to split this chapter was because I really wanted to be able to post this and not keep going back to edit and end up re-reading the entire Dean and Alicia conversation and forget to do any editing. I can't say in the original storyline I started four years ago (Christ, four years) that I meant to approach this issue or any real world issue more than tangentially (though to be fair, nor did I see Dean on a Pole or hippofucker, this began as a freaking _writing exercise_ ).
> 
> Survivors of domestic violence are rarely if ever allowed to be people; to be a survivor now, the common narrative requires they be otherwise without flaw. Like survivors of rape and sexual assault, it's not enough to have it happen to you; you must be above reproach or you don't get to be that. It's bullshit. You can be a fuckup and still be a survivor; you can be a murderer and still be a survivor; you can be a rapist and still be a survivor; you can be a perpetrator of abuse and still be a survivor of it; the only criteria required to be a survivor is to survive. One does not cancel out the other or excuse it: no one deserves it, what was done to someone is not erased by what they do, and what they went through does not excuse (though may explain) their actions. People are not single-item boxes with a single definition; they contain multitudes, and their definition is a work in progress until they're dead.
> 
> Abuse takes many forms and in combination, and it's different for everyone who experiences it. No one has the right to ask you a single goddam question other than 'are you okay'; anything else, they can fuck themselves. This one thing is always true, however; there is no right way to be a survivor other than survive.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Warkittens for medical advice and line editing-all remaining weird mistakes are what I missed. This is a split chapter because its kind of long, so the next chapter should be up fairly soon

_\--Day 157, continued--_

Castiel doesn't have a clear goal--away from the room was his chosen destination, direction unimportant--but the sound of a raised voice makes him pause on the second floor. Following it, he hesitates in front of the presumed door, then knocks politely. It's only a moment before it opens to reveal Melanie, flushed and tense, short brown hair falling out of its clips. To his surprise, the only other occupant of the room is Sarah, seated cross-legged on a sleeping bag against the wall. She looks tired, and there's a tightness around her eyes and mouth that tells him it's not entirely physical. Yes, he knows that feeling very well.

"Hey," Melanie says in surprise. "Everything okay?"

"I was about to ask you the same question," he answers, regretting the impulse; both of them are experienced at being human and certainly don't need his help to arbitrate a private dispute. (For that matter, he didn't know that was actually possible with Sarah.) "I don't mean to intrude. I just...."

"He could probably could hear you in the hall," Sarah says neutrally.

"It'd be nice if people in the room could do that," Melanie says over her shoulder, and Castiel regrets heartily that he's become a person who is concerned about random voices in hallways. When did that happen? _Why_? "You have a minute, Cas? I could use a third party opinion."

Technically speaking, he does some minutes, yes. "I suppose--"

"Come in," she says, stepping back invitingly. "You, stay," she adds when Sarah starts to rise, and Sarah immediately sits back down as Melanie shuts the door. 

"I should get back--" Sarah starts.

"To Kat?" he asks, and Sarah nods shortly; now he understands his function, and it's an excellent one. "Are Drew and Phil are with her?" She nods again. "Then you have no reason to return at this moment."

"Thanks, Cas," Melanie says cheerfully. "Have a seat." At her gesture, he takes the far side of the sleeping bag facing Sarah, and Melanie lowers herself down beside him. 

"Melanie," Sarah starts, "I don't think this subject benefits from--"

"As long as there's a chance you may benefit from it, I'll talk until I lose my voice," Melanie interrupts caustically. "You've been with her every second you're not on duty or forced leave. This has got to stop."

"Obviously my supervision is lacking," Sarah answers. "Last night--"

"You're allowed to be tired!" Melanie says in exasperation. "And to sleep. And eat. And not spend every goddamn second playing nursemaid for Kat! For fuck's sake...."

"Sarah, it is not your responsibility to be Kat's full-time guardian," Castiel says. "You're her team leader, not her mother or her keeper."

"I'm her friend," Sarah answers quietly. She and Melanie and Kat have been roommates almost since they arrived at Chitaqua, but he didn't realize how close Sarah and Melanie were. For that matter, until he saw Sarah with Kat after Andy died, he wasn't sure she was close to anyone, or had any desire to be. "I should have anticipated--"

"You're her friend," Melanie agrees, voice hard. "But she sure as hell doesn't remember she's supposed to be yours. If you're not going to listen to Drew--"

"He talked to you?" Sarah interrupts evenly.

"Yeah, he did," Melanie retorts. "He's worried about you, and so am I. Kat doesn't want a friend; she wants a punching bag. She knows Drew and Phil will tell her to fuck herself if she gets out of line; why do you think she wants you there all the time?"

"Sarah, is her behavior when Drew or Phil are present different from when she's alone with you?" Castiel asks, regretting he didn't question Sarah more closely on Kat's behavior before now. "Did those who stayed with her yesterday report she was abusive?" Sarah remains silent. "Melanie?"

"No, they didn't," she answers evenly. "And she was sweet as fucking pie to fucking Carol. Sarah, come on, she was over the line _before_ she fucked with Alicia! You don't shit on your friends just because they'll stand there and let you!"

"Drew was correct to speak to your friends, Sarah; you would do the same for Melanie if you felt any member of her team was taking advantage of her."

"You _did_ do that, when David and I first got together," Melanie says, mouth softening. "Remember? By the way, David loved your version of 'bury you where no one will find your body if you fuck this up' speech."

Castiel just manages not to react, and Sarah's gaze snaps to him for a moment before returning to Melanie. "I didn't say--"

"You can make well-wishes sound like a death threat, don't even pretend," Melanie continues affectionately. "My best friend had my back; you think I didn't appreciate knowing that? Still do." Her smile vanishes. "You'd put them through a wall if someone was doing this shit to me, and you know it."

Sarah doesn't answer, which he assumes means that's true.

"David took the kids to the Volunteer Center for the afternoon," Melanie continues, relaxing. "Lyz has been wanting to get back to play with the kids at the YMCA--er, assist in organizing their daily structure something. David and Danny pretend they're not into it, but whatever. So how about we--"

"So you both have some free time?" Castiel asks casually, and both look at him. "A mission, I should say. If you're interested."

"I like where this is going," Melanie says encouragingly. "Dangerous?"

"Of course."

"I'm in," she agrees, turning sideways in obvious anticipation, and if he's not mistaken, Sarah seems to brighten.

"Dean wants to do something stupid," he explains and is pleased to see understanding nods. "He called it a plan."

"Read: suicidal," Sarah agrees.

"Supposedly, Alicia did the actual planning, such as it is." Sarah and Melanie look marginally comforted, and he truly hates to take that away from them. "Her part is to confront Erica alone for distraction purposes, while Dean does the same with Crowley to get Erica and her minions to leave."

Both look at him, waiting for the part that would make this make sense. Then Melanie says tentatively, "That--that's not...not the whole plan, right?"

"They think it is," he tells Melanie's face. "Worse, they believe it will work."

"Christ," she breathes. "He infected our tactician? Cas, no, we just found out what she could do!"

He lets out a relieved breath; so he's not the only one that noticed that. "The problem is--"

"Where to imprison them until sense comes or the world ends?" Melanie asks sincerely. "What about seeing if Ana can blow the lock on that other room in the basement? It's a dungeon, guaranteed, I got money riding on this."

"Tempting, but no: if anyone can get Crowley to help us--or at least, spite Erica--it's Dean. And Alicia can distract Erica enough to give him time to do it. So with those two elements in place, I need an actual plan, one where both of them survive with all limbs and souls in place and that _also_ works. If that's even possible."

Sarah gets up, moves her sleeping bag closer, and sits down again. "I wonder," she says thoughtfully, "how many Croats are still out there?"

Melanie nods. "That's a good start."

* * *

"So, me and Sarah are the drivers," Melanie tells the table, composed of Dean, Joseph, Amanda, Sarah, Alicia, him, and herself, of course. Perched on the chair by Sarah and opposite Alicia, Amanda, and Joe, she leans forward, indicating the map of Ichabod proper, the wall, and the hastily added ward line on the table between them. "We're going to make it look like a patrol of the wall."

"We haven't been doing that before," Amanda argues. "So why now? Keep in mind, this is Erica; she knows us."

"She'll assume the partial truth; that we're looking for her and pretending it's just to exterminate the remaining Croats," Sarah answers. "Until this morning, we didn't know she was still here; it's been just enough time for Dean to have called everyone together, met with his lieutenants and discussed options, and made a working plan. A patrol looking for her near the walls would be exactly what she expects."

"Predictable," Amanda says, glancing at Dean at the head of the table for his reaction, Castiel assumes. "Not a bad thing in this case: it'd reassure her she's a mastermind of unparalleled cunning and everything. What about the car graveyard north of the wall, though? We're going to have to circle around past the ward line to get through parts of it."

"Croats cleared part of it themselves straight to the northwest postern door when they were chasing you," Melanie says. "The rest--from what Gretch said when she scouted for Cas looking for Croats, there's some spots we'll need to circle around past the ward line, but it clears up again east of the North Gate, at least enough for a couple of jeeps."

"Good so far," Dean says. "What else?"

"We'll send two jeeps--Mel and I in the first with you, Amanda, and Joe, and Mel's team in the second. Two jeeps would be reasonable for a patrol like this; one to stay to deal with a threat and one to retreat back to the walls to get help quickly. Go out the South Gate," Sarah explains, finger touching that point on the map, "and go clockwise, west to east." Her finger traces an uneven wave around the walls before coming to a stop at the eastern border of the ward line. "Just past the East Gate, we get an unexpected flat tire."

From the other side of Melanie, Castiel smiles in satisfaction; they'd accomplished a great deal during the ten minutes in their room, two minute walk to the Situation Room, and fourteen minute wait for Dean and the others to arrive.

"We let Joe, Amanda, and Dean out while we fix the tire," Melanie says, picking up from Sarah. "Then we go back in the nearest gate, that being the East Gate--who wants to patrol with a flat tire?--and David finishes up the circuit at the South Gate and another team starts the route. Me and Sarah wait there until you're done, and if anything goes wrong, we can get to you in under two minutes."

"We should start soon, however," Sarah says. "This has to look genuine, so there should be at least two circuits by other teams before we go out and continue circuits until you are behind the walls again. Cas, when would be the best time for Dean to make the attempt?"

"Preferably well after full dark," he answers. "It's not as if demons are more dangerous after dusk, and I'd prefer the cover of darkness. The perimeter of Ichabod is roughly twenty-one miles, so each circuit should take roughly forty-five minutes to an hour and fifteen minutes to complete, depending on who's driving. As the first team will also be mapping the route for us, it'll take them longer."

"How many circuits?" Amanda asks, peering down at the map.

"Ideally, four before Dean goes out, and as Sarah says, as many as needed until he returns," he answers. "That will also assure that there's one mobile team already outside the walls should anything go wrong."

"Start with Ana's team," Amanda says promptly. "They're off duty, and after dealing with Micah, they deserve the treat. Haruhi's team can man the second jeep."

"Haruhi and Rosario are on assignment," he answers. "Send Kara and her team." He mentally opens Chitaqua's shift schedule. "Sean's team will perform the second circuit, and Damiel and Lee should be off their shift on the wall by then and can take the third and fourth. Alonzo's can go with Sean, Britney's with Damiel, and Travis and his team with Lee. They've all fought demons, but I doubt Erica's minions will take the risk of doing anything but watch. We'll repeat those as needed until Dean returns."

"If we're lucky, they'll try, though" Melanie says hopefully, and Sarah nods agreement, which is as good as someone else saying 'I wish to bury my knife in their writhing body and drink their still hot blood while laughing as they die'. "I would pay literal money--if I had any--to get a bullet in Stan."

"Or Luke," Amanda murmurs, a ripple of something dangerous in her voice.

"Right," Joseph starts. "This sounds great--"

"It does," Castiel agrees. "When Melanie and Sarah return inside the walls, they'll radio to tell us, and Alicia then goes out the West Gate--trying to appear surreptitious instead of actually being so--and her team will follow, doing a better job of being subtle."

"Where to?" Amanda asks.

"Past the ward line," Alicia answers, and Castiel wonders uneasily if anyone else notices how quiet she's been. "The first Crossroad is Zero; if she doesn't show by the time I get there, I'll do a summoning."

Amanda frowns. "You could get anyone, though."

"Erica's both the closest and the most motivated to appear," Castiel says. "Erica manifesting first for Alicia considerably lowers the risk that when Dean performs a summoning at the Crossroad, she--or her companions--will appear."

"And we're that sure Crowley will show?"

"Pretty sure," Dean says, but something in his voice silences further questions. "Okay, sounds good--"

"Except for the part where these circuits are going to get attention," Amanda interrupts. "So there's good odds that when we're dropped off, someone is going to see us."

"I thought of that," Castiel says. "To avoid that, I'm going to see if I can make all of you invisible."

Into the stunned silence, Amanda asks, "What?"

* * *

Castiel patiently waits out the exclamations of surprise and demands for explanation; he'd be happy to do the former, but the latter is making that impossible. From the corner of his eye, he sees Dean hiding a grin and tries not to think anything of it.

"If you would like to know more--" Cas inserts into a brief lull and gets six pairs of eyes fixed on him for his trouble. "Thank you. If I may?"

"I hate you," Amanda says without heat, resting her elbows on the table and fixing him with a glare. "Okay, spill. _Invisible_?"

"Yes. Or rather, practically invisible," he corrects himself. "True invisibility is time consuming, complicated, requires a great deal of power, and is sometimes fatal to the corporeal form, and by that I mean, dissolves it from reality. If I were an angel, of course, this wouldn't be a problem, but resurrection is more difficult these days--"

"Christ, you're enjoying this," Melanie says in admiration. 

"So, we'll work with what we have. To wit: a set of sigils that influence the sensory perception of those in corporeal form. They've been tested on both humans and demons, and with both they worked flawlessly. However--"

"I want those _yesterday_ ," Amanda interrupts, sounding awed. "Where'd you find them?"

Human curiosity: always so inconvenient. "Well--"

"He made them up," Dean says lazily, mouth quirking, and Castiel feels himself flush beneath Dean's gaze. 

Amanda looks between him to Dean, unblinking. "You _made_ invisibility?"

"Technically," he tries, "you're not invisible--"

"You can't see someone, that's invisible," Melanie interrupts. "Holy shit, Cas, you realize what we can do with this? Someone, make a list: first on it, _everything_."

"I suppose, yes," he agrees warily. "However, as I was saying--"

"You _suppose_?" Joseph bursts out, and Dean starts to laugh helplessly. Dragging out a notebook, Joseph flips pages and unearths a pen from his jacket. "Okay, tell me what they do, what they don't, everything you know: start now."

"We're still in the experimental stage," Dean says before Castiel can think of how to respond. "Number of people affected doesn't seem to matter, definitely covers up to two senses without much problem--"

"Not just sight?" Amanda interrupts as Joe writes frantically. "How _many_ senses?"

"Simultaneously?" Castiel asks, and Amanda's mouth drops open. "We've tested up to two, but it potentially affects all five."

"Wait a minute," Amanda says suspiciously. " _Tested_. Tested _where_?"

Dean sighs. "Weird, I can't remember. Fever, you know?"

"You _didn't_ ," Joseph says in alarm. "You didn't--fuck my life, you _did_."

"In Chitaqua," Amanda moans, covering her face. "You wandered around Chitaqua _invisible_?"

Dean doesn't seem inclined to answer, smiling at them winningly.

"We confirmed it can simultaneously affect both the visual and auditory spectrum," Castiel says, deciding perhaps it's time to return to the original subject; it can't be healthy for Joseph to be that color for very long. "It was tested on members of the camp," he pauses to let Amanda moan in horror, "as well as Jeffrey."

Amanda and Dean both come to attention without seeming to do more than look at him. "Jeffrey," she says softly. "First date at the shooting range, yeah."

"We haven't tested anything beyond sight and sound," Castiel continues, suddenly remembering Dean's question about how it might feel to be touched by someone using the sigils. "And for the most part, taste and smell are irrelevant, though we may now heartily regret the water restriction."

Amanda sits back with a thoughtful look. "I'm hearing a 'but'."

"It was a 'however', and yes, there is one. I designed them for Dean, and while they should work for anyone who wears them, that hasn't been tested."

"If me and Joe put them on now--"

"It won't work." Joseph pauses, pen at the ready. "At least, not on anyone in this room at this moment. There are restrictions, the most important is that this alters _perception_ of reality, not reality itself. If someone knows for certain you're there, the sigils have no effect." Looking at the ring of confused faces, he tries to think how to explain. "It's--"

"A lie," Alicia says. "It's like you walk up to someone looking at a tree and tell them it's not there: they're not going to buy it. You want this to work, you gotta tell them the tree's not there before they look at it, am I right?" He makes himself nod as he would to anyone who was correct in their assumptions. "What's the command in the sigils? What are they telling us?"

"'Nothing there'," he answers evenly.

"Dissonance," she says with a flicker of satisfaction. "Okay, I got this. The sigils have to get in first. You look at someone, the sigils say 'nothing there' at the same time. Your eyes disagree--can't blame 'em, they're right, after all--and it's super annoying, so the brain has to make a judgment call. The brain doesn't want to deal with the arguing, says 'fuck it' and pretends it's not happening, so 'nothing there' wins by default, am I right?"

He nods again; of course she'd understand.

"So you don't even notice anything happened," Alicia says, addressing the entire table. "On a guess, two senses would be as much as you'd want to risk; higher than that, the brain gets curious why three senses are making it miserable and investigate, therefore discovering the sigils are lying and it stops working"

"Yes," Castiel says, repressing the unexpected urge to smile. "Exactly."

"So how do we test it?" Amanda asks.

"Put them on you and Joe," Alicia says, a hint of amusement in her voice, "and go stare at Jeremy and Joelle at the front desk."

An ecstatic smile spreads across Amanda's face. "This is gonna be great."

"Cas, you have a permanent marker?" Melanie asks as she gets to her feet and tugs Sarah up behind her. As Castiel goes to retrieve it from his supplies, she tells Amanda, "Strip down. We gotta work out where to put it."

When he returns, Amanda has already discarded her flannel and thermals, and after a murmured consultation with Melanie, her tank top as well, revealing the smooth black lines of her sports bra. As she sits backward on her chair, Castiel observes the lines of scars, old and new, on her back and waist, ridges vanishing beneath the waist of her heavy cargo pants, searching automatically for any new problem areas since the last time he checked her. Scar tissue can thicken over time and cause various issues if left unchecked. Scar reconstruction as performed by a plastic surgeon is impossible, but there are other ways to deal with anything that might impede use of their body. 

"Legs?" Sarah asks dubiously.

"Not for something like this." Crouching, she examines Amanda's back. "She needs to be able to get to it fast in case she needs to de-activate or reactivate it on the fly. Or someone else doing it for her if she's injured: last thing we need is a ritual striptease during or after a fight."

"Actually...." Amanda starts, twisting around to grin at Melanie's warning glare. "Fine, just saying, I'm not opposed. For justice."

Rolling her eyes, Melanie rests her hand just below the sports bra on Amanda's back. "Arms in position, run through all five for me," she says, and Amanda stretches her arms above her head, then at forty-five degrees, then straight out on either side, then down at her sides. Melanie frowns, spreading out her fingers, feeling the shift of muscle carefully. "Okay, swing up to midpoint in front of you, then up above your head, and then down. Then repeat from the top."

Melanie skims up and then down on the second repetition, stopping short of the small of Amanda's back, then back up just above her natural waist. "Here," she says, looking at Sarah, who frowns and nods reluctantly. "How much room do they need?"

"Six sigils, so about six inches," Dean says. "I can get it down to three."

"Good enough. If this were a tattoo or a brand, I'd say your ass," Melanie says to Amanda, "but sitting might rub even permanent marker off."

"You just want to see my ass again," Amanda mocks over her shoulder.

"It's a nice ass," Melanie retorts. "I had fun with it. Sarah?"

"Friction might be a problem," she says slowly, tilting her head. "But all those layers should protect it if she's grabbed. Cas, do you need to touch the skin to activate or deactivate it or is pressure in the area enough?"

"It requires direct skin contact," he answers, but he finds himself thinking about the possibility of activation that could be done through clothing, or even discarding touch altogether. "Even one layer of clothing is adequate as a barrier."

"And anyone can break if they touch or erase it, not just the person who drew it, or is it restricted?"

Dean bites his lip. "Anyone, yeah. With rubbing alcohol, believe it or not."

"Good," Melanie says. "Amanda, touch here, all five fingers, palm, wrist, then flip to back of your hand, back of your wrist, left, then right: go." Amanda reaches back obediently, skimming Melanie's hand as directed first with her left, then her right. "Perfect."

"So I feel stupid," Dean murmurs ruefully in his ear, and Castiel almost jumps; he didn't realize Dean was that close. "Me, I just did it on my arm and called it a day. Where anyone--no names--could rub some alcohol on it anytime they wanted."

Dean's faint, reminiscing smile stops the caustic question on his presumed regret before it reaches his lips.

"Cas?" Amanda says hopefully as Joseph, who apparently gave up trying to decide if he's allowed to look, comes over to join Sarah. Alicia, however, seems content to stay in her chair, and he sees Dean glance over at her before turning back to Amanda. "I'm ready."

"Give me that," Dean says, taking the marker and going to join them. "Hold still."

"Look at that," she says, crossing her arms over the back of the chair and resting her chin on them disconsolately. " _Now_ you remember testing."

"Might remember something," Dean tells her as he takes Melanie's place and drops into an easy crouch. "Might not; wanna find out?"

Amanda twists around to look horrified in Dean's direction before settling again, holding still as Melanie frames the ideal area for Dean. Uncapping the marker, Dean sketches the six sigils with the easy expertise of someone who drew them on himself many times, and who thought--at least for a little while--that Castiel wished him to become a still-living ghost.

Sitting back on his heels, Dean checks it again, then glances at Castiel, and he suddenly remembers lounging on the couch in his cabin, an empty line of shots on the floor and a joint in his hand, with Dean standing before him. He watched Dean strip off his shirts before taking Castiel's joint and replacing it with a marker; his protest ended when Dean knelt before him, and he drew the six sigils for the first time on the bare expanse of his arm.

Dean smiles at him, small and private, as if he knows what Castiel's thinking. "Cas? How are they?"

"Perfect," he says softly. Dean ducks his head, cheeks faintly pink, and he's almost overcome with the impulse to taste growing heat beneath his skin.

Distantly, he hears Melanie say, "Uh, are they--"

"Yeah, they are," Amanda answers in resignation. "They do that now. Just roll with it; at least no one's getting hit with sweatshirts." Dean snorts as he gets up. "So just touch it to activate?" 

"To activate it, touch it and say, _Par bolape umd gono_ ," Castiel answers. "To end it, _finis_."

"First part's Enochian," Joseph says, sounding intrigued. "Why Latin at the end, though?"

"Enochian has no concept of 'ending' as such. Nothing ever ends, so we don't need it."

Joseph looks pained. "Something tells me if I question that, I'm going to get a headache."

"I'm getting one trying to imagine the conversation," he admits. "If it helps, angels are infinite, immortal, and exist out of time; 'end' is...generally interpreted as 'not now'--for value of 'now' when time doesn't have any particular meaning--or 'interruption'." Joseph rubs his forehead. "Brief interruption. Like a hiccup."

"It doesn't help," Joseph says, starting to tug off his sweater. "So this is me, not thinking about it. Same place as Amanda's?"

"I think so, but let me check," Melanie says, waiting until he's removed sweater, thermal, and tank top and sitting before checking the broad expanse of his back. Resting her hand between his shoulder blades, she frowns, eyes distant. "Okay, same as Amanda: start now." As Joe repeats Amanda's movements, Melanie runs her hand down his back and then back up, pausing just above where she'd stopped on Amanda. "Here. Sarah?"

"That will work," she answers, nodding at Dean, who carefully sketches the six sigils where Melanie indicates.

When he's done, Castiel comes up beside him, nodding at his glance.

"All done," Dean says, slapping Joe's shoulder as he stands up. "Get dressed and have fun in the lobby. It's fun, trust me." Amanda checks herself tugging her tank top over her head to give Dean a horrified look. "Mel, pick up Ana's and Sean's teams on the way back; we'll brief them now and get them out there."

"Got it," she says, waiting impatiently for Amanda and Joseph to finish dressing with an anticipatory look. "Let's check this out."

* * *

After they all return ("That was weird," Amanda says, looking happy and unnerved. "I even got behind Jeremy and said 'boo!'. Nothing."), Ana's and Sean's teams are both briefed, and Joseph goes to update Alison while Amanda returns to the interrogation room to relieve Kamal from Micah-sitting duty. So far, any effort to elicit information has been a failure.

("It's possible he doesn't know anything," Joseph told them with a shrug. "Erica isn't stupid; she wouldn't tell him any more than she needed to."

"He's too smug," Amanda says. "He knows _something_."

"Smug," Joseph stated, "is his default setting. Before you wonder if I'm being naïve, I'm saying, Micah knows that what he doesn't know, he can't tell.")

With Dean is done with them, Castiel takes Sean's team aside to explain their future duties with Alison. As he suspected, Sean's team--having been Alison's escort multiple times--is exactly as sympathetic as he hoped. 

"Yeah, no shooting her," Sean says blankly. "She actually thought we would?"

"I assumed it was a human thing," Castiel explains. "So some of you are sane and don't believe you should be shot for no particular reason?"

"More sane," Tara corrects him with a sigh, hand coming up to smooth over her hair, an old habit, he suspects. Unlike most at Chitaqua, she keeps her tightly curled black hair cut very short, a frame for her sharp features and dark brown skin. "I'm guessing knocking her out would be a bad idea?"

"She requires consciousness to maintain control," he answers regretfully. "You have your orders; if you have questions while on duty, come and ask me; there are literally no stupid questions when dealing with a powerful, somewhat cranky psychic with a taste for self-sacrifice."

"When do we start?" Sean asks.

"Two hours before dawn." He looks them over critically and reviews their schedule over the last three days. "After you return from your circuit of the city, eat and then go to bed. All of you will need to be at your most alert tomorrow; Alison, depressingly, is only one of the many ways we could die."

"Pool's got us at sixty-nine to survive until the barrier's up," Lena offers. "So, not bad."

"Put me down for survival, if you would," Castiel says, and Lena brightens, removing a small notepad from her jacket and flipping it open. "Make sure and be at the South Gate in thirty minutes, however; Ana's time to drive the perimeter is naturally going to be the longest, and I'd like yours to be ten to fifteen minutes shorter for variation."

"She leaving us any Croats?" Kim asks hopefully, twisting the end of her brown ponytail. "One or two?"

"We'll hope for the best. Is there anything else?" They all shake their heads. "You're dismissed."

Castiel watches Sean and his team depart, noting in satisfaction their ease with each other has increased dramatically. Dean's discipline requiring them to be in constant proximity to each other seems to have had a beneficial effect on their unity instead of the reverse. He watches approvingly as Tara comes up beside Sean, obviously to discuss the mission, and suspects that--provided Dean decides to let him retain this team--Tara will be his official second, something Sean has neglected to see to until now.

Joining Dean, he hears Ana say, "--wait outside for Natalie and Evelyn; they'll bring the jeeps"

"Dismissed," Dean says, nodding before turning his attention Sarah and Melanie. "All right, we good?"

"I'll go brief my team so they'll know where I'll be," Sarah says, not looking at Melanie. "Talk to Kat a little. It might help her to know that we're going after the person who caused Andy's death."

Melanie and Dean both hide their skeptical expressions remarkably well. "Mel?"

"I'm going to get my kids from the YMCA," she says, turning to Sarah. "I'll walk you up; I need to grab something from my room."

When they're gone, Alicia reluctantly gets to her feet and looks at Dean. "Should I get my team now, or--"

"No," Dean tells her. "I'll tell 'em when they get back, no worries."

"Is there a reason you can't tell them yourself when they return?" Castiel asks, keeping his voice carefully even.

She can't seem to meet his eyes. "Dolores asked for help in the infirmary. Since it's still a few hours until we start and they're pretty overwhelmed, I thought I'd go and see what I can do."

"You don't have to," Dean says quietly, and Castiel just stops himself from reminding her that duty takes priority over leisure. "I told Dolores I'd talk to you, but that's it."

"I want to," she says, but even he can hear the lie. "They need the help."

Dean sighs. "Dolores said to tell you not to worry, and also, Karl wants to hug you." Her mouth twitches. "Any problems, come back, okay?"

"Thanks," she says, nodding. "When should I--"

"I'll come and get you when it's time," Castiel interrupts. "You're dismissed."

Alicia nods shortly to them both, going out the door without another word. As soon as the door is closed, Dean looks at him, and belatedly, Castiel realizes they're alone. Again.

"I need to get something from my--our room," he says abruptly; at least it has the advantage of being true. He doesn't wait to see if Dean argues the point, and Castiel keeps his mind carefully blank as he goes out into the lobby, nodding politely at Jeremy's smile and Joelle's wave and takes the stairs two at a time. 

Too quickly: when he reaches the landing, he sees Alicia half-way down the left hall on her way to the back stairs, He starts to turn down the right one when a sense of motion makes him pause, and Kyle abruptly emerges from the one of the rooms directly into Alicia's path.

"Alicia," he says urgently, jumping back when Alicia almost runs into him. "I need to talk to--"

"Not the time," she says thickly, dodging around him. 

As she passes Kyle, his urgent expression turn into a frown, and he reaches out, grabbing her arm. "Alicia, would you just _listen_ to me? You owe me that much!"

She stills. "Let go of me."

"Not until you--"

Alicia pivots, ducking under Kyle's arm and twisting it up behind him before turning him and shoving him face first against the wall while her left hand drops, fisting briefly just short of the hilt of her knife. Instead, she braces that arm across his shoulders and kicks his legs apart, throwing his balance off. Kyle's not usually this careless; even if Alicia's better, he thinks it says a great deal that Kyle's reflexive response isn't to respond to her as an adversary and threat until it's far too late.

"You touch me again," Alicia says, "you lose that hand. Do we understand each other?"

Belatedly, Kyle attempts to use his greater strength, and this time, Alicia pulls her knife, the flat of the white blade touching his carotid; she doesn't have to do more than turn her wrist for the razor-edge to open it to the shoulder, and he'd bleed out before they could even begin to stop the bleeding.

Kyle, not being entirely stupid, stills. "Do we," she asks again, "understand each other?"

"Yes," he grinds out. Alicia holds him for another moment, then steps back. Warily, Kyle turns around, eyes dropping from her face to her hand and swallowing as she flips the knife. "Got it."

"Good," she says with a meaningless smile, and sheathing her knife, she starts back down the hall. There's an actual concern he may try to follow her, and Castiel only debates for a moment before deciding that there's no reason to risk lethal bloodshed at this moment, tempting though it may be.

"Kyle," he says before he can decide suicide is the greater part of valor.

"Cas." He lets out a breath. "You saw that?" Castiel nods the obvious answer, and Kyle sighs. "Look, she was just--upset, I don't know, she gets like this. I'm not filing a complaint or anything--"

"You're not joking, are you?" By Kyle's baffled frown, that would be no. "I'd take your hand just on the off-chance you might use it to touch her--or anyone else--if you give me an excuse, any excuse whatsoever. That's what humans do to children, correct? Take things away from them when they misuse them?"

Kyle looks shocked. "What--"

"You are already under restriction for stalking and harassment," he continues, wondering if--by some impossible chance--this wasn't clear. "I'm both willing and eager to add assault."

"I wasn't assaulting her!" he protests. "I just wanted to talk to her!"

"She isn't required to listen."

"Look, it's about her going after Erica," Kyle says urgently. "Cas, no matter what Dean says, you can't let her do it!"

Castiel watches the color drain from his face as he realizes what he just said. "We should talk," he says, gesturing toward Kyle's room. "You can start with telling me how you know anything about it."

* * *

After twenty minutes, Dean acknowledges that Cas probably isn't coming back until it's time for him to leave for the patrol, or--possibly--until he's already gone. Welcome back Cas's disappearing act; didn't miss that shit at all.

Unbidden, the memory of Cas's face when he told him about Alicia flashes across his mind; it was there and gone--Cas learned how to hide what he feels in the same school Dean did--but it was everything Dean was afraid of. Chest tight, he fights the urge to reach up and rub it; even now, if he could have thought of a way around telling Cas, he knows he would have done it. It was his fuck-up, yeah, but one he'd do again without hesitation if it meant sparing Cas that.

His fuck up, though, and that means he doesn't even have the right to comfort him; get him coffee and tuck him into bed (since they don't have a couch here, at least in their room), get some cards or dice or a chessboard or _something_ (he'll even let Cas bring his laptop to bed in this one never to be repeated special occasion) and let Cas have his head. Surrealist conversation, he can do that; meandering historical anecdotes with startling (if not always entirely clear) relevance to their lives, he can do that, too; raid Cas's stash, roll him a couple of joints, get some tortillas, and make a night of it, he's in. 

Dean stretches his right hand warily, searching for that feeling of something there, and is rewarded with a dull throb that warns him he's fucking up Cas's work last night. Collapsing back into the couch, he just stops himself from rubbing it against his knee; at this rate, he's going to need to learn how to patch his jeans.

There's a sudden knock on the door, Kamal's head peeking in. "You have a minute?"

"Yeah," he says in resignation. "What's up?

"Micah wants to talk to you."

* * *

Following Kamal down the stairs, Dean gets caught up on events.

"He kept asking for Alicia," Kamal explains as they reach the bottom and make a right, passing the door leading to the (empty) swimming pool and gym. "Every ten minutes, almost like clockwork."

"He wants to fuck with her," Dean answers. "And therefore fuck with us."

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Kamal agrees as they reach the end of the hall and make a right. Mark and Gary are standing on either side of their brand new interrogation room, looking bored enough to start a war just to get some variety. He's got to admit, it's not exactly inspiring as halls go; maybe he should suggest they bring a book. "But I'm not sure about that anymore. At least, that's not the only reason."

"Dean," Gary says when he sees them, straightening abruptly to something that looks painful while Mark bites back a grin. 

"Guys," Dean says solemnly. "So, what's up?"

"Nothing much," Gary says, somehow--impossibly--straightening even more, and Mark gives Dean a look that asks if he really wants such an easy target. "Just--you know."

Dean nods, carefully not smiling as he follows Kamal to the TV room (ridiculously large repurposed coat closet?). A glance at the screen shows Amanda looking unimpressed and Micah, annoyed, but--and he could be wrong--also a lot less smug.

"He's asking for me?"

Kamal nods reluctantly. "He's been asking for Alicia since we brought him down, said he wouldn't answer anything until he talked to her. We figured we'd wait him out, but--Dean, he's definitely worried about something. If he's willing to talk to you, might as well try."

Right. "Turn off the cameras." Kamal looks dubious. "Not gonna beat him up, come on--"

"Uh," Kamal starts.

"Or get beat up by him, Jesus," Dean adds when he doubles down on the dubious. "I'll yell for help, okay?"

"You better," Kamal says darkly, flipping them off, and the screen goes to noise. "I'll be right outside the door, and you're armed, right?"

"Cas checked me this morning," Dean says viciously, enjoying Kamal's pained look. "Personally."

"Fuck you," he says with a sigh. "Let's get this over with."

* * *

Dean enters the interrogation room, nodding at Amanda as he sits down. "You wanted to see me?"

"Alone," Micah says flatly.

Dean exchanges a look with Amanda, and she tilts her head. "I could use some coffee."

Translation: I'll be right outside and God help you if you get injured before I can kill him.

"Grab me some," he says as she gets up, turning her back on Micah and going out the door. Which--this being Amanda--is as good as saying Micah's as dangerous as a puppy. Then again, compared to Amanda, everyone is as dangerous as a puppy.

"So, you wanted me?" Dean asks, slumping back in his chair, suddenly, viscerally aware that the man across from him used to beat Alicia. There's a faint, unmistakable tension running through him, and the sulky mouth is too tight, lips nearly white. He's definitely worried about something, but on a guess, not that he's been outed as what he really is; Dean's hunted monsters all his life, and it's not like some of them didn't look human, too.

"Erica wants my wife."

"Alicia," Dean corrects him. "You called me down here to tell me three year old news? Really?"

"My deal with Erica," Micah says. "You guessed I made one; I did. Straight trade--I give her Alicia, she releases me from the contract."

Dean stares at him, at a loss for words; it's not like he didn't think just that, but the way Micah says it.... Like she's a pair of boots, a used coat: like she's something and not someone.

"It was a mistake," Micah continues hurriedly. "I--I was angry, I hadn't seen her in years--for fuck's sake, she tried to murder me in our cabin!"

"I haven't been to law school," Dean says evenly, not entirely truthfully (and wasn't that a shitty fucking job), "but I don't think it's murder when it involves self-defense." 

Micah surprises him; he tries on 'regret' and almost manages to pull it off. "I made mistakes during our marriage, I don't deny it--"

"Spousal abuse isn't a mistake; it's a fucked-up lifestyle choice," Dean interrupts, pushing back his chair. "Look, I got some important trying not to die shit to do, so--"

"Wait!" Dean pauses. "Erica was obsessed with my wife--"

"Alicia," he interrupts quietly. "Her name is Alicia."

Micah's jaw tightens. "Erica was obsessed with her, almost from the beginning. She tried to take her from me any way she could...look, you can't let Alicia outside the walls while Erica's here. She'll do anything--and I do mean anything--when she realizes that I'm not giving her Alicia."

"You'd know," Dean says pleasantly. "She used you to get Alicia last time, didn't she?"

Micah looks like he wants to argue, but the guy has some sense, after all; he keeps his mouth shut.

"So before I go--you have any idea what she's going to do if you don't deliver? Besides come after you at the next opportunity, of course." Micah's expression doesn't change. "By the way, what _are_ you going to do when this is over?"

"I still have years on my contract," Micah answers. "Erica can't--"

"Erica's the least of your problems," he interrupts. "The one thing she can't do is kill you herself, not without voiding the contract."

Micah frowns. "Then what--"

"I can, though."

Micah rolls his eyes. "Yeah, got it, I'm scared--"

"This isn't a threat," Dean says, strolling around the table. "It's a preview of coming events. When this is over, you don't have years; you have exactly as much time as it takes to get you outside Ichabod's walls. Then I'm coming after you."

Micah snorts. "You're not going to kill me, Dean. Chitaqua's rep is bad enough; you really want to add murder to the charges?"

"How is anyone going to find out?" Dean leans back against the edge of the table, itching right hand braced on the smooth surface between them. "Not like I'm going tell anyone, and who's going to care anyway? Carol's dying, your buddies are MIA, and Alicia probably wants you dead more than I do."

Micah expression flickers. "Then why not give me to Erica now?"

"How long was Alicia trapped in that cabin with you beating her to get her to say yes?"

"I don't remem--" 

Dean closes his left hand around Micah's neck and slams him face down onto the table. Getting a handful of hair, he jerks Micah's head up and rests the flat of his knife against his neck.

"Make one sound and I'll cut your throat here and now," he says pleasantly, and Micah chokes back the burgeoning scream. "Cameras are off; you attacked me and I had to defend myself. If anyone asks, I mean, and honestly? No one will. Now, answer me: how long?"

"Erica made me--"

Dean slams his head into the table with a sound like a watermelon splitting; he likes it enough to do it again. When he pulls Micah's head up, blood, tears, and snot are smeared across his face from his broken nose. "How long?"

Micah spits out blood. "You can't just--"

"Wrong answer." Shoving Micah back onto the table, Dean punches through his back, shattering the spine and splintering his ribs before closing his hand around the warm, wet meat of his still-beating heart. "No screaming," Dean murmurs against his ear, and watches in satisfaction as Micah's lips seal shut, eyes bulging. "Last chance, sweetheart: how long?"

Micah cheeks puff helplessly, screams trapped behind sealed lips. Horror-filled eyes stare at him until his lips part on a wet gasp. "Twelve. Twelve days."

"Twelve days," Dean says. "That's how long it's gonna take you to die. And that's when it really starts; you owe me for Cas, and paying that just might take forever." He leans closer. "You hear that?" Whimpering, Micah nods against the wood. "You know what it is? Say it."

"Screaming," he whispers, eyes squeezed shut. "Please, Dean--"

"You're going to hear that until I come for you," Dean says, pulling his hand out and flipping his knife before cutting Micah's throat in a fountain of glistening red. The room is filled with the muffled, wet sounds of Micah choking airlessly on his own blood, long after anyone else would have the mercy of death. "Then all you're gonna hear are your own."

Stepping back, he tosses Micah back in his chair. Micah reaches behind him, frantically touching the expanse of unmarked wool, then the bare skin of his throat, still whole, looking down in horrified confusion at the rumpled, bloodless sweater and jeans. 

"What...." He fixes his eyes on Dean, glassy with terror. "Who are you?"

"See you soon," he says with a grin, adding just before he snaps his fingers, "Promise."

* * *

When Dean opens the door, he's not entirely surprised to see Amanda and Kamal practically plastered to the frame while Mark and Gary try and look casual about hovering right behind them. 

"Done," he says blandly. "Still alive. In case you were wondering."

Amanda rolls her eyes before frowning; following her gaze, Dean realizes he's rubbing his right hand against his upper thigh. "Arm bothering you?"

He starts to deny it, then gives up. "Just cramps," he answers, feeling a shock of pain when he tries to flex it. "Used it too much the last few days, I guess." 

"What is that?" Micah says abruptly from behind him, sounding--weird.

Dean turns around, startled by the change in his appearance; sitting rigidly straight in his chair, Micah's face is bleached to a sickly grey, and even from here, he can see he's shaking, hands clasped on the table and flexing endlessly. "What?"

Micah lifts his head, eyes weirdly glassy. "That--you can't hear it?"

"Hear _what_?" she asks impatiently.

"It's like--"

Screaming. 

"--I don't know," Micah whispers, eyes darting to Dean again and fixing for a moment before he looks away, hand going to his throat and smoothing over the skin like he's looking for something. "I want to see Alicia."

Dean feels the hilt in his hand; he can't _stop_.

"Right," Amanda says with a sigh, reaching to shut the door. "So, you get anything?"

"His soul for Alicia," Dean says distractedly. "See if you can get anything else, I gotta--gotta do something."

* * *

When he gets to the empty Situation Room, he goes straight to the bathroom and makes for the taps, relieved to discover they work in here, at least. Turning on the hot water, he shoves his right hand under the icy spray, eyes closed until he's breathing steam but somehow, it never gets any warmer.

When he opens his eyes, he sees a familiar, green-eyed stranger holding a knife under the steaming tap. Written on the blade are words formed from his own agonized screams: _this is my name_.

"What the hell--"

Jerking his hand from under the tap, he frantically tries to turn off the faucet with his left hand and hisses at the sprinkle of burning heat from the water. When he looks again, the mirror's steamed over entirely; he can't see a thing.

* * *

When he leaves the bathroom, he almost runs into Cas, apparently waiting for him just outside the door.

"Hey," he says, hoping he doesn't sound too surprised (nothing he can do about the relief; that seems to come through loud and clear). "Uh, you--" He takes in Cas's expression. "What happened?"

"Kyle was listening at the door during your conversation with Alicia. At least until Jeremy arrived; then he hid in the office of wrong next door."

It's only when he's jerked to a stop that he realizes that he's halfway to the door; he's hit his limit on assholes for the day. "Cas--"

"He thinks that Micah made a deal with Erica to get her Alicia," he says, leading Dean to the couch and not gently pushing him down on it before taking a chair between him and the door. "Dean?"

"He was right," he answers flatly. "Micah gets Alicia for her, and she breaks his contract."

Cas raises an eyebrow. "So his warning to her was indeed genuine: seller's remorse, I assume. I wouldn't have thought he was capable of it."

Dean thinks about the inflection in Micah's voice when he said _my wife_. "He said he did it before he saw her again, the night after he and Carol got here."

"Probably with the help of the idiots two. Stephen and Barney," Cas clarifies when Dean gives up trying to remember their names. "We keep forgetting them, but then again, it's not like they're easy to remember."

"What about them? They're still bravely hiding somewhere north of Fifth."

"I dislike having this many variables without a single constant," Cas explains, which he translates to 'no fucking clue what's going on and this is bullshit'. Yeah, Dean's with him there. 

"What I'm not getting is why Erica agreed to this trade in the first place." Cas raises his eyebrows. "I mean, I get it; she's a demon and Alicia's the soul that got away because Erica had something like feelings about her. But a soul in the hand's worth--you know."

"She wanted to take her," Cas says. "It was 'feelings' only so far as that the reason that she didn't was because she didn't want to pull the trigger when Alicia said no. This is Erica, after all; I doubt that inhibition would have lasted much past my death, and I have no doubt she would have used Alicia's guilt as well."

"So what's changed since then, you mean?"

"Several things, not least of which is that Erica is now a Crossroad demon, and as a group, they don't think there's anything that can't be bought. But even as a human, Erica wasn't one to take unnecessary risks, hence the 'bullet to the head' method of persuasion. Considering her master plan was overwhelming us with a ridiculous number of Croats just to get a Hellhound inside Ichabod, that seems to continue to be true."

"That wasn't a good plan."

"The only good plans are those that work," Cas retorts. "If it had--and I remind you, it very nearly did--it would have been brilliant. Especially for Erica."

You send Erica when you want to win and don't care how. How much she knows about what's happened in Ichabod is up in the air, but demons can smell when someone's desperate, and she knows Alicia. "We can't send Alicia out there."

Cas raises his eyebrows. "Why not?"

"Why _not_?" Dean exclaims guiltily. "Because--look, it's a shitty idea.

"It is, but it's also all we have. Without Alicia's participation, this plan--as we must refer to it, for lack of a more accurate term--is officially non-existent."

"What's the worst that could happen?" Dean asks (the stupidest question in the world). "Erica shows up, makes fun of us, and leaves. She won't kill me, Cas; you heard her."

"I'm not worried about her killing you," Cas answers. "I'm worried she'll kidnap, mutilate, and torture you until you wish you were dead but without any risk of actually causing your death. Dean, you only have to be alive to keep the status quo, and breathing and a heartbeat are all that's required." 

Chilled, he's reminded suddenly it's not just his own memories that Cas has; he's got all the shit Crowley shoved in there, too. He probably knows--as well as Dean does (if not better, not like angels were above that kind of thing)--how much a human body can go through and survive. 

"If we're fortunate, she'll eventually ask for a trade so we can get you back," Cas says quietly. "If we're not--"

"No one," Dean interrupts, "is gonna fucking deal for me."

"--we'll have to summon her and beg for the privilege of making a deal on any and every term she desires." Cas's eyes meet his. "That is the only way this story will end."

Dean wets his lips and distantly recognizes Cas is maybe the only person who can make 'saving you from hell on earth' sound like the threat it is. "Got it."

"Good," Cas says with a smile that reminds Dean of a much crazier pre-confronting Lucifer Cas in all the wrong ways: insouciant, indeed. "Alicia's participation is mandatory; if you don't want her to go, then we don't have a plan or even the substances from which plans can be made."

"And you're okay with that?" It's on the tip of his tongue to ask Cas if Alicia's soul's a fair exchange for that night at his cabin, but for once, sheer horror catches up in time to cram the words back down his throat. It's not Cas he should be asking that question; it's himself. "If Erica tries to make a deal with Alicia--"

"Alicia won't take it."

Christ. "Everyone's got a price." And it's not like Alicia doesn't have a lot of reasons to be tempted, especially now.

"Everyone has a price," Cas agrees. "But not everyone can be bought. Whether they want to be or not."

He just stops himself from flinching. "You really believe that?"

Cas raises an eyebrow. "Yes."

"I don't regret it," Dean says abruptly, not sure why he needs to say that. "Making a deal for Sam."

"If you could, you wouldn't be you." He's still circling that statement warily when Cas adds, "That's irrelevant, in any case. Alicia can't be bought."

"Does she know that?"

Cas shrugs. "If she tries to make a deal, she will, very quickly. I suspect Erica won't take that well, so it would be best to bring Crowley to agreement very quickly, if possible."

Dean's suddenly reminded of learning all about the Road Coloring Theorem when Cas was explaining how it related to the most recent reorganization of their pantry, except the (horrifying) part where he understood after Cas assembled a model of the goddamn thing with toothpicks. This--he's not sure what to do with it.

"Look, it's not that I don't believe you here--" he starts.

"In other words, you don't."

"-- _but_ come on, there's still a risk!"

"There's always a risk," Cas says dryly. "In this case, however, Alicia would have to lose her mind, and insanity invalidates any attempt at contract. It's understandable after what Alicia told you that you're sympathetic--"

"She didn't tell me just to get my sympathy," Dean interrupts and immediately regrets it; Cas's expression goes blank, probably at the reminder that Dean spent two days protecting one of the people who tried to murder him _before_ hearing all the messy details, and by the way, another one of them's in the interrogation room, both very much alive and not exactly paying for their crimes. He's really raising the standard for bad boyfriend and partner, but hey, at least he's not beating the shit out of Cas every day and making him think he deserves it. So, better than Micah. Maybe.

"Dean, if you'll stop being defensive--"

"I'm not being defensive!" Dean snaps defensively. "I'm saying, I don't think she's fucking with me--us--as a get-out-of-attempted-murder card!"

And that, kids, is how you double down when it comes to stupid. They're about five seconds from Cas finding something perfectly legitimate to do and walking away, and worse, he gets how easy he's getting off. Cas of even four months ago would have walked out without bothering to make even a minimum effort to make Dean feel less shitty about it.

"I said I'd believe her," Dean says abruptly, fixing his gaze on the wall behind Cas's shoulder. "I told her if she told me what really happened, whatever she said, I'd believe her." Not liking who you are--hating it--isn't easy to fake, and impossible with someone who hasn't seen it, much less lived it.

"I understand." Risking a glance, he sees Cas relax. "There is something missing, though the exact number is something of a question. What I'm not sure of is why."

"How many...what?"

"Hours," he replies absently. "At least seven, but possibly as many as twelve, as the CDC hadn't arrived yet. Assuming the hospital was aware of the protocol for suspected Croatoan--the alarm makes me suspect they were, to get the key employees out and safe _before_ formal quarantine was established--the FBI, the National Guard, and the CDC would have been informed within an hour of confirmation, which is usually within two hours of formal quarantine. How on earth she got past the National Guard--possibly twice--is a mystery, but if she knew the hospital--"

"Wait," Dean interrupts. "Go back: seven to twelve _hours_? At the hospital?" Cas nods. "Where are you getting that?"

"According to Alicia, the first child was born at eight thirty-eight that morning and the last just after three. It was roughly an hour later when Alicia heard the alarm; that's consistent with the manifestation of the first child." 

"So she heard it, went to the nursery--"

"In a deserted hospital, after procuring drugs from one of the open, abandoned cabinets and carrying cyanide and a sledgehammer?" Cas asks. "That wasn't impulse, that was a plan, and a good one; it worked. Dean, she said she'd never seen a case of Croat before, and even if she lied about everything else, I'd believe that without question. That was the first time that alarm had been used, her supervisor had just told her about it. Why would she go to the nursery to kill children infected with something she didn't believe existed?"

Dean shuts his mouth. "The bodies of those women...."

"They'd been dead several hours from her description of coagulation," he answers. "Unless there were National Guard units in the hospital already when the alarm went off--and why would there be?--it was at least three to five hours at minimum after the alarm that the National Guard arrived; doubtless the hospital delayed as long as they could to assure the chosen medical employees escaped. The only thing that surprises me is that someone had the sense to chain the nursery door shut--though apparently the nurse within wasn't one of the chosen--to minimize the possibility the mothers would get to their children and spread it further."

"If the police were called first...." Dean doesn't have the highest opinion of the police anywhere, but even he can't quite imagine them able to kill those women in cold blood. And if protocol required calling the National Guard, it's a good bet this wasn't supposed to be handled--or even known about--by the locals and risk panic. "When she went in there, all the kids had manifested; eight hours from the last, seven from the time of the alarm...." Seven to twelve hours, Jesus. "I missed it."

"You couldn't have known," Cas says, which is true; the thing is, the other Dean would have. He would have caught it the moment Alicia said she went to the nursery, and those women would have confirmed it. But he would have known before that anyway: it was just basic math.

The knock on the door is almost immediately followed by Joe's face. "Sean's team just left. Lee and Damiel are back early; I sent them to get something from the mess and pick the recruits going with them. You want me to send them in here when they're done or...."

"Yeah," he answers. "Mel's team back?"

Joe nods confirmation.

"And Sarah and her team?"

Joe gets a really familiar look: right. "With Kat."

"I want everyone here in fifteen minutes, including the recruits," he says, not looking at Cas. "You and Amanda, too. We're going out with them and wait our turn at the South Gate."

"Got it," Joe says, closing the door, and Dean has just enough time to acknowledge--

"When did you decide that?" Cas asks neutrally.

\--maybe he could have told Joe to wait a minute and talk this over with Cas first.

"Just now," he admits. "Something...." It's not just about those missing hours; it’s the reminder he doesn't know anything yet, he's just faking it really well. Sure, he's not sure what hanging out at the South Gate for a few hours will do, but it's not like being at Headquarters is better. "You were right; it may be shitty, but this is the only plan we have other than waiting around doing nothing. If I'm at the South Gate--if something happens...." Yeah, he has no idea what he's doing.

"You don't want to be here doing nothing while your soldiers out there," Cas says with a flicker of amusement. 

Dean's soldiers: he hasn't earned them yet, not really, and this week's proved it. "Yeah," he agrees. "That'd be it."

* * *

The briefing doesn't take long--it's not like this is complicated or anything--and Dean dismisses them with Cas reminding them to suit up for a presumed hostile encounter instead of a standard patrol. So there's a difference: another thing he didn't know. 

When they're gone, Cas goes to the door and waits, staring at Dean until he realizes, hey, that includes him, too. "Hostile encounter?"

"More weapons," Cas explains, following him up to their room, where the arsenals come out, spread out on the floor for Cas to peruse with the concentration of someone deciding the fate of mankind. Which, he remembers, is actually one of Cas's angelic skillsets. 

Making his selections and setting them on the bed, Cas repacks the cases and turns to look him over with the kind of critical professionalism that shouldn't make him flush and hate pants.

Then Cas loops the shoulder holster over his arm and says, "Please don't move," and Christ, he forgot this part and is so very fucked. 

Skimming off the flannel, Cas tosses it on the bed without looking, tilting his head before saying, "Please lift your arms."

(Dean's accepted that his life with Cas is going to be the equivalent of living with all the universities in history not only teaching him shit that he never cared about or even knew existed, but that _no one_ knew existed. Not only that, somehow, all of it will not only be relevant to his life, he'll really like knowing it. 

_The hindbrain contains primal instincts that date back before you were even sentient and it responds not at all to arguments that we live in more enlightened times and there's no need to visually mark you as mine to all that might behold you._

See, he doesn't even need to know what the fuck a hindbrain is (the hind of the brain?) to get this. His hindbrain (isn't a hind a deer or something?) gives no shits about setting, timing, or even content, much less 'enlightened times' (whatever that means); when Cas uses that voice, its response is a blanket answer of 'yes, please'.)

Case in point: Dean lifts his arms with the same alacrity as if Cas said, "Remove your pants so I can suck you off" or "Bare your chest so I may remove your heart with my bare hands". 

(Answer: 'yes, please'. Because hind-fucking-brain.)

The worst part--best part?--is that Cas isn't being anything but professional, but his hindbrain (that's gotta be fake) can't tell the difference. Sliding the shoulder holster up Dean's right arm, he moves behind him to settle it against his upper back before repeating with the left. Crossing in front of him, Cas adjusts the buckle of the holster under his left arm for a quick draw with his right, then the magazine holders that fit under his right. Going back to the bed, Cas selects a gun and two magazines, and it looks like foreplay's gonna be getting pretty goddamn dangerous in the near future. If he ever gets anywhere near that with Cas again (and losing that right now seems worse than Ichabod, the Apocalypse, and Lucifer reigning on earth. His priorities are _fucked_ ).

When that part's done, Dean doesn't bother relaxing; Cas checks his belt (he did it this morning but fuck if Dean's reminding him now), adding a twelve-inch hunting knife to rest against Dean's outer thigh, then the thigh holster is in Cas's hands and breathing is for those poor losers not here right now. Kneeling (oh God), Cas slides it around his leg, hand resting on Dean's inner thigh as he sets it into position before buckling it into place. Getting up, he returns to the bed for the gun and settles it in its holster before checking Dean's boot knife and finally easing to his feet.

When Cas appears abruptly holding the flannel, Dean stares at it with no clear idea what you do with those. Tear it into strips, it's strong enough to--

Put it on, he realizes, and hates everything. Ever.

Stepping back as he buttons it up again, Cas looks him over again, and Dean's just got faking his breathing down when he says, "I want to go with you," and drops on the foot of bed with enough of a bounce to clear Dean's head (a little). "I understand your reasons and they're logical, but--"

"They're really not," he admits, drifting toward the bed because logic isn't his strong point right now and never has been, come to think.

Cas ignores him. "It's prudent that one of us be available here--"

"Yeah, I'm known for that," Dean agrees, self-preservation kicking in enough to stop him about six inches from Cas's knees. 

"--but...." Cas looks up at him in belated confusion. "What?"

"I don't want you anywhere near Crowley," he says without thinking, and oh, that's a mistake.

Cas's confusion goes straight to shock, and there we go, that look: on a guess, the last people to see that were in Sodom or Egypt and he knows how well that went for them. "You think I can't handle Crowley?"

"I know you can handle Crowley," Dean starts with the confidence of someone trying to talk their way out of being shoved off a cliff. "That's not the problem."

"Then why...." For a moment, relief washes through him that he won't have to say it, Cas understands, but no, this is his life. Confusion to angelic wrath to confusion to...oh God. "Are you perhaps under the impression that I welcomed Crowley's attempt at seduction and will succumb upon seeing him again?"

"No!" he states with the desperation of someone being held off the side of a cliff: if he looks down right now, all he'll see is empty air and the couch in the Situation Room that he'll be sleeping on for the rest of his life because Cas will never let him back in Chitaqua, much less their cabin. "It's not you, it's him."

Cas's expression doesn't change. "What," he asks in the same voice Jeffrey heard telling him all about his skinned-alive-hanging-from-Chitaqua's-walls future, "does that mean?" 

"It _means_ ," Dean answers hopelessly, "that it's not logical! What aren't you getting about this? I know you can handle Crowley, Erica, all her buddies, probably half of Hell without even trying! It. Doesn't. Matter. I don't want you out there; I want you _here_. Maybe just stay in here?" he asks, looking around the room. "Salt line, lock the door, maybe move the bed...just until I get back, I mean."

Cas's eyebrows rise just enough for him to realize that Cas did get that last part wasn't so much a joke as a plan made in futile hope. Waiting, he goes through all the arguments Cas will make--and the ones he doesn't need to, unspoken but crystal-clear--and eventually realizes he's been waiting and Cas is--not arguing.

"Cas?" he asks warily, and if he maybe cuts six inches to three, well, he did, what else is there to say? "Look, I know you're pissed about--" Christ. "About a lot of things. I fucked up a lot, and you're totally justified here. I just...." He struggles desperately for something--anything--and what comes out is, "Hindbrain."

"Oh." Cas tips his head back to look at him, unimpressed.. "Well, then, all is explained."

Those three inches vanish when Dean straddles his lap, feeling Cas's hands settle on his hips automatically, blue eyes startled as he knots a hand in Cas's hair and kisses the curve of his lower lip as the faint stiffness drains away. The soft mouth opens beneath his, and Dean shoves everything else away, greedy: _mine_ , that's the hindbrain thing, the part that tells logic to take a walk and good sense to fuck itself. 

Education, never wasted: now he knows what it is that makes him memorize all of Cas's expressions and watch his hair fall into his eyes when he's working on something too intently to pay attention and the thousand ways Cas laughs and the exact rhythm of his breathing when he sleeps. Why he resented Alison--and maybe sometimes still does--because she could see into Cas's mind, could do something he couldn't and even admit he wanted to. At least, back then.

Jealousy, no fucking _shit_ , what clued him in? Jealous of Theodore, who Cas remembers fondly for sex and alcohol, of Alison, who can see his mind, and of Crowley, who touched him and shoved some part of himself inside him and Dean can't afford to think about that, not now, not a few hours before he plans to use the guy, or he'll kill him on sight. And of Dean: the other Dean, the smarter, stronger version, no scarred arm or recent fever and wasn't too stupid to even know what he was missing, the wound his death left in Cas that may be healing but he'll always carry the scar. That Cas said he'd choose him only helps when he doesn't think about the fact he's also the only one here.

Hindbrains are _dicks_ , and so is he. Jealousy: what wouldn't you do when driven by that? Knowing you'll never be quite as good no matter what you do, when you wonder late at night if becoming them would be enough, when you wonder if you even could, or maybe--maybe if you just might want to. It's only a few steps from there to try.

He pulls back when he has to breathe, light-headed and dizzy, panting against Cas's lips. "I'm sorry," he whispers, stroking his fingers down the thick stubble, prickly against his left, not even a sense of pressure against the first two fingers of his right. "You deserve someone better--"

"Shut up." A strong hand clamps down on the back of his neck, and anything else Dean was going to say--whatever that was--vanishes into the welcome heat of Cas's mouth. It feels like an argument and like a benediction, and if it feels like the forgiveness he shouldn't be given so cheaply, he'll take it anyway.

"You're ridiculous," Cas breathes, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, to the dent just above his chin. "It's not an epic tragedy; I don't even like reading them, so why would I want to live one? I don't agree with your reasons for concealment, but...." There's a momentary hesitation. "We'll talk about it when we get home. Perhaps with hamburgers and milkshakes."

Way too cheaply: no one deserves forgiveness if they didn't pay for it in full measure and tenfold, and he's got a lot of paying to do. "I'm going to make it up to you," he promises, thumb sliding over one high cheekbone. "Everything, Cas."

Cas rolls his eyes, leaning up to kiss him, and then the next thing he knows, he's sprawled on the floor and Cas is grinning so hard it's like staring into the sun.

"Did you--" Dean pushes himself up to try and glare, but he's grinning, too. "You asshole."

Getting up, Cas extends his hand, unrepentant. "You're going to be late, and I'm not sorry at all," he says in satisfaction, pulling Dean to his feet and turning toward the rifle leaning against the foot of the bed before Dean's grip on his hand pulls him up short. "Dean?"

Lacing their fingers together, Dean gets the rifle himself and reluctantly abandons the hopeless plan of convincing Cas to make their room into an ad hoc fortress as he leads him to the door. 

"Walk me down," he invites, tightening his grip. Not that Cas seems to be fighting to get away, but never hurts to be prepared. "You can check everyone before we go and scare them."

"I do like doing that," Cas agrees obediently, shutting the door behind them. "But mostly, it will be to see you off safely."

"Want anything?" Dean asks as they start toward the back stairs. "Crowley's head on a platter, maybe? I can do that." All he needs is a platter; maybe the mess has one?

"Just you," Cas says, and Dean fumbles the door like an idiot. "And a trade agreement with Wendy supplying Chitaqua with candles. A very generous one: I would like a lot of candles, and she may have to recruit more apprentices to assist her."

Dean pulls the door closed in the stairwell before shoving Cas against it to taste that smile. "Anything you want."

* * *

Castiel busies himself with important and completely mundane work on the patrol schedule, but it takes almost no time at all to update it, which leaves him far too much time to think. He can effortlessly track Dean's progress, after all: first, four people will go to the garage to acquire extra vehicles (most are in the walls now, so it's something of a miracle there are any vehicles left) before surreptitiously driving them south of Baltimore to pick up the rest of patrol who will subtly make their way there so as not to alarm anyone with large numbers of heavily armed Chitaqua residents suddenly appearing for no particular reason and assuming the worst.

(Apparently, any number greater than 'three' in Ichabod's streets is considered a large number when it comes to Chitaqua.)

Sitting back in dissatisfaction, he considers and discards several equally important duties he should see to, then realizes belatedly he's rubbing his right hand absently against his thigh. Lifting his hand, he frowns at the reddened palm before there's a knock on the door. 

"Come," he says in relief, closing the laptop.

Kamal opens the door with a faint smile, but there's a strained quality to it. "You have a sec?"

"As many as you need." He gestures to the chair across from him. "Sit down."

Taking the chair, Kamal frowns, and Castiel wonders if offering coffee now would be a good idea. 

"Needed a break from Micah," Kamal explains, fingers tapping lightly on the table. "Sheila and Chris took over."

As that was on the schedule (that Castiel made), he suspects Kamal isn't sharing that information because he's worried Castiel will assume he's guilty of dereliction of duty. "Still unpleasant, I take it?"

"Yeah." Kamal's eyes fix on the table, fingers taking up a more rapid rhythm. "Just asks for Alicia between ignoring our questions. Par for the course."

"We're not allowed to beat him for answers," Castiel says sympathetically, though in all honesty, beating Micah for the sheer joy of doing it would be his primary motivation. Kamal's expression flickers, the strain returning. "Something isn't par for the course?"

"He's acting twitchy," he says. "Like, even more than before."

Or perhaps Micah does know something. "What questions is he reacting to--"

"I mean crazy," Kamal interrupts, the words tumbling out like he's been waiting for an opening. "Cas, I've been watching him either in the room or on the TV the entire time he's been in there. Earlier, he was ignoring our questions and being a dick, yeah, but now he's...he's ignoring our questions, but only after we repeat them a couple of times. Like he didn't hear them or something. Then he asks for Alicia and it starts over again."

"Does he say anything else?"

"No--actually yeah," Kamal answers, frowning uncomfortably. "He asks if we can hear it."

* * *

Three minutes of observation clarify matters considerably. He feels the hair on the back of his neck rise as Micah's head jerks abruptly, like it was grabbed by the hair, to focus on Sheila in surprise when on the third repetition, she raises her voice.

"He's not faking," Kamal says from beside him. "I mean, he could be that good an actor, but...."

"Why on earth would anyone want to act like this, yes," Castiel agrees as Micah's gaze darts around the room almost frantically, reacting not at all to Chris's next question. Turning his attention to Chris and Sheila, he examines their expressions; both are professional, but the same strain he saw in Kamal's smile is visible around Sheila's mouth and Chris's eyes as they watch Micah, restless in limited motion. One hand comes up to his throat just as his eyes dart to another empty point of air, stroking the skin almost soothingly. "He wasn't acting like this before?"

"No," Kamal answers. "Smug jittery dick before, weird jittery dick now." They both watch as Micah reaches to touch his nose, patting it as if uncertain it's there and requires reassurance before jerking his hand back down. 

"Before," Castiel says. "Before what?"

"Before Dean talked to him," he answers. "Figured at first Dean said something that spooked him and he was fucking with us in revenge. Now, not so much."

Interesting. "Is the recording still in the camera? I want to see it."

"Don't have any," Kamal says, making a face. "Dean ordered the cameras off."

Castiel just prevents himself from saying something he will probably regret. Eventually. "Why? I assume it wasn't to beat Micah to death."

"Didn't say," Kamal offers with a shrug, and Castiel bites back a _then why didn't you ask?_ ; this would be one of those times their militia forgets it's supposed to do that. Asking _why did you let him do that?_ would be even less productive; Vera's the only one who might do that (today, possibly from sheer spite), but depressingly, she was needed for saving people's lives. "Cas, the geas--he probably has it, could this be that?"

If the geas reacts to the feeling of being trapped as well as the reality, both are satisfied by Micah being in that room, but size as well as the fact only two other people are with him wouldn't. Then again, it may very well have mutated; there's no way to know what number he is in geas-telephone or what the command is now. Surely Sheila and Chris would have reacted as well; there's no possible way they aren't carrying some version of it by now.

"I want someone watching the feed at all times," Castiel says finally. "Mark and Gary are to check inside the room every fifteen minutes and should receive verbal assurance from Sheila and Chris that they are still in their right minds. Don't underestimate him; he may be out of practice, but he was one of us, and we can't count on him having forgotten his training."

"No one who made it through training _can_ forget," Kamal says wryly, and Castiel's surprised by the affection in it. It didn't occur to him that--at least with the second class--those would be pleasant memories for anyone but him. "Anything else?"

"I trust your judgment." Micah jerks again to look at Chris in what might be genuine surprise. "I'm going to the infirmary to speak to Dolores; if there's any change or he engages in hostile action--" He pauses so they can watch Micah's eyes follow an invisible path across the wall above Sheila's head, the blind sweep of his gaze over them via the camera sending a chill down Castiel's back. "Clear the room of everyone but Micah, lock the door, and send for me, in that order. Do not engage; if this is the geas, there's no guarantee whatever version he has now will manifest as the others did."

"Got it," Kamal says with a sloppy salute, and Castiel can't quite hide his smile as he goes out to speak to Mark and Gary.

* * *

Everyone is way too quiet on the jeep ride to the South Gate--which is now three quarters field and the population of which has increased by a number he calls 'fuckload' of livestock, nosing the snowy ground, makeshift feeding areas in protected sheds with hay and fresh water and whatever else you feed cows (Dean's hazy on this, he should learn). 

Ichabod didn't fuck around during Operation: Get The Animals Inside the Awesome Walls. He wasn't around for most of it (staring at Cas was kind of a lifestyle choice at that point), but eighteen hours, and any area not encompassed by Cas's wall (and Cas even crazy made an effort to get the primary fields as well as the barns, stables, sheds, pens, coops, warrens, insert animal-related enclosure inside the perimeter) was searched, the animals rounded up (on horseback, even, like a real life western) and herded inside, where groups of residents were already preparing. Not a lot of fences--or really any--but in roughly designated areas horses, cows, sheep, goats, and--just to make this more hilarious and surreal--the occasional alpaca wander together.

He's still not over the alpaca: according to Alison, about six months earlier, a herd showed up and pretended they'd always been there when feeding time came. 

("Montgomery Ranch," she told him. "They were way too well-fed, and I'm kind of opposed to stealing animals even if they did it themselves. We checked around, got a lead from a town nearby that they traded with, and went to tell them about the escapees."

Her expression tells him what they found when they got there. "Monsters?"

"Raiders: Manuel recognize the signs. We found about forty bodies--plus not a few raiders--a couple of hundred dead alpaca, along with most of the less portable livestock. Didn't find any kids--which means either there weren't any there, or the raiders took them along."

"Nice of them," Dean says a little sickly; no one wants dead kids, but if they didn't have the stomach to murder toddlers, he's not seeing many _good_ scenarios coming out of this.

"The place was stripped bare of food and weapons before they tried to burn it down. Failed, of course: they weren't competent in arson and the rain that week probably didn't help."

Dean sat forward: killing for food he gets (Chitaqua wasn't near starvation yet before the deal with Ichabod, just restricted rations, but seeing the dwindling supplies and looking at his camp members adjusted his thinking faster than probably anything else could have about survival here), but killing the animals and destroying the ranch doesn't. Its' not like the raiders needed to cover their crime here. "Why?"

"So people would know they'd been there," she answers evenly. "Warning, calling card, showing off, who knows? Can't say the Alliance wasn't at least one of the reasons they started doing that. We run patrols between our towns, and any town or farm inside the line benefits as well whether they're members or not; they call, we answer if we can. We're smack in the middle of Kansas, Dean, and we may be a small area, but it's gotta grate they can't get in.")

Cas's Greek Alpaca Island Adventure is looking less crazy; apparently, alpaca really is (was?) an industry you wanted to get in on the ground floor of. Though Alison was horrified at the idea of using them for food; like some of the herds of sheep and one of Ichabod's actual warrens of rabbits, the alpaca are spoiled rotten because they have awesome fur (wool?) that can be turned into clothes by some mysterious means involving yarn and looms. Thanks to the Alliance, they have the resources for investing time and labor in animals for more than their value roasted, baked, or fried.

Looking over the snowy field, he can't remember for sure if Ichabod has shifts out here full-time or just check-ins to make sure the water isn't frozen and something isn’t upsetting the herds. The landscape is dotted with random shelters that actually don't look too bad; he could see someone taking a book and a battery powered space-heater in there, make a day of it in the hay. Sounds nice, actually: he was a cowherder (cowboy? Oh, that would be cool), he wouldn't be dealing with being the shittiest boyfriend in the world or unable to stop seeing that stricken look on Cas's face.

Christ, he shouldn't have let Cas let him off like that, because Christ, he has every right to be pissed about this. Yeah, you should have expected better of me, this was the shittiest possible way to find out; yeah, I fucked up, and from an entire host's worth of shitty options I picked the one that was easiest on _me_ ; it was a mistake and I'm sorry.

A sudden movement in the more distant white-coated fields gets his attention, and Dean picks out the distant black faces of sheep like dots on the landscape. Scanning the herd--flock, right--he watches the white-on-white motion, the suggestion of black legs like blurs, and then notes a slim figure among them, barely an outline at this distance, dressed in something as white as the snow. Shepherd: of course Ichabod has one. He watches him--no, her, definitely a woman--wave her crook, and the flock abruptly disperses, running madcap among the placid cows while others seem to be headed toward the barns and pens, little white balls of fluff on blurry black feet like living clouds. Dean accepts it as adorable and goes with it, especially Tiny Sheep Number Who Knows nuzzling the blunt nose of a lone cow about ten times its size before zipping by.

Rubbing his eyes tiredly, he observes that several more cows seem to have joined it, munching on cleared ground; even cows, need friends, he supposes, watching others wander up from somewhere to join. That is, he reflects, a fuckload of cows.

"Dean?" He jerks his attention to Amanda, who looks amused. "You still with us?"

He fights the urge to call Cas and see--what? "Call front desk at HQ. Make sure the kids are paying attention."

"Now you're just being mean." Exchanging a look with Joe, she picks up the walky-talky, flipping the channel. "HQ, it's Amanda, over."

The pause feels like forever before it crackles subtly and they hear Jeremy, sounding tinny. _"Chitaqua front desk,"_ Jeremy says firmly, like he's reporting a life and death struggle of the ages. _"Over."_

Amanda grins. "Hey, hon, just checking in. Everything okay?"

 _"Status is--uh, fine,"_ he says, and Dean bites his lip against a grin at Jeremy's annoyance with himself. _"Status quo ante."_

"Got it. Over and out." Closing the channel, she cocks her head. "Feel better, mother hen?"

He wrinkles his nose. "Check in again in fifteen minutes. Make sure they aren't doing anything Maimouna is gonna kill me for later."

"They're not--" Joe starts.

"Seventeen," Dean enunciates, and Mel snickers from the front of the jeep.

Joe looks scandalized. "In the _lobby_?"

"In the principal's office," he answers and Joe's horror is too much; he and Amanda collapse in laughter (good thing Sarah's driving if the sounds Mel's making are any indication). "Under the bleachers during a football game."

"In the bleachers at Homecoming," Amanda says smugly, crossing her arms and giving them all a challenging look. "Bathroom of a redneck bar, baby."

"Behind the bar," Dean counters as Joe makes shocked sounds. "During happy hour."

"Stop it!" Joe demands, scandalized, and Dean distinctly hears Mel giggling in the front seat. "What is _wrong_ with you two?"

"I was on business," Amanda answers sulkily. "She was a contact, thus much contact must be made."

Dean grins. "Aren't they all?"

"You're both...." Joe glares at them both before subsiding, turning deliberately to stare out the window like he doesn't know them. 

Grinning, Dean watches for the South Gate; this is actually his life. Surrounded by cows in a walled city, about to summon a Crossroads demon and not even deal, yet all he can think is that the wall could really be improved by some towers, break up the monotony. Walter may be onto something with that moat idea; some things are restricted from crossing running water.

"Dean," Amanda says abruptly.

"Yeah?" he asks when she just frowns, shifting uncomfortably before blowing out a breath. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, I just gotta get this off my chest." Taking a deep breath she turns to face him. "You're not going to sell your soul to Crowley or anything, right? That's not the plan?"

"You heard the plan," he answers in bewilderment. "Cas approved it."

"I mean your secret plan."

"What secret plan?"

"That's what I'm asking," she says, so seriously that Dean wonders if maybe there _is_ a secret plan he forgot about. "The one you didn't tell anyone about because you're that stupid."

"I'm not that--"

"Yeah, you are," she says, and it's actually terrifying she can say that without actually knowing enough of his (real) history to confirm how right she is. "So I'm asking again: is there any plan of any kind that involves your soul, period? Crowley optional here."

"No," Dean answers honestly, which doesn't seem to be as reassuring as he thought if her dubious expression is any indication. "No soul involvement whatsoever."

"But if it seems like a good idea, is that on the table?" she persists, and now he's got Joe--and fuck his life, Mel, who's actually leaning over the goddamn seat--looking at him. "Let's make this easy: that's not an option."

"I'm not," he says flatly, "going to sell my soul."

"Okay, and it's not that I don't believe you, because I do," Amanda lies. "But anything comes out of your mouth that could be mistaken for something like someone trying to make a deal, I'll shoot you. Three months and some rehab, you'll be fine, good as new, promise, but--"

"Holy shit," Dean interrupts. "You really would, wouldn't you?"

She frowns at him. "Yeah, of course. You know I'm a good shot. Wounds heal; sold souls…do something else, work with me here."

A desperate look at Joe gets him an adamant nod, and Mel's with the program, adding in an extra determined look. Sarah's still driving, or he suspects she'd be giving him the same look but expressionless and therefore scarier.

"You'll shoot me if you think-- _think_ \--I might maybe be making a deal with Crowley for my soul?" It's possible he heard that wrong because belated brain damage due to fever. He hopes.

"Any deal," she corrects him, confirming for all time that Cas desperately needs a co-parent when raising his next batch of hunters. "Even if all you're giving up is your shoes, so--fair warning."

"Why would I give up my shoes?" he asks, because that's the important question here (also, he's curious). "What would a demon _want_ with my shoes?"

"No idea, but they aren't getting them," she answers darkly and sits back. "Glad we talked about this."

Dean looks at Joe, then Mel (no help whatsoever) and gives up, deliberately turning to look out the window. Crazy people.

* * *

Castiel leaves Headquarters, taking in the semi-busy street so to best avoid passers-by. Despite that, as he passes an alley, he almost runs into someone, and jerking back before collision, he sees Cathy frozen in front of him, eyes wide as her face drains of what color she usually possesses, and he notices one eye looks suspiciously swollen, the red threatening to become a spectacular bruise, and she's favoring her right leg.

All his observations of Ichabod have confirmed that abusive behavior would not be tolerated, but that is difficult to enforce when it's well-concealed. Then, it can happen under your very eyes and not be the wiser, perhaps for months or even years. She always had an explanation, but he never thought to question how many there were, how often they were produced. As if she'd practiced beforehand: as if she'd had practice with explanations. 

Of course, that was only after he started to ask when he was training her; before--before, he never asked at all.

"Do you need assistance?" She looks at him as if she doesn't understand the question. "You're injured."

She licks her lips, her uninjured eye darting away. "No," she answers, shaking her head. "Just--I was clumsy."

"Perhaps--I am on my way to the infirmary to speak to Dolores. Perhaps you could accompany me so she can--see to that."

"No!" Cathy takes a step back, looking horrified. "I'm fine, just--just an accident."

She's not one of his soldiers; he can't simply order her back to Headquarters until he's certain what questions to ask. "If you're certain--"

"I'm fine," she says, ducking her head. "I--have to do something." Before he can think of a non-threatening way to detain her, she slips past him, and Castiel watches her for a moment, uncertain, then continues to the infirmary. Dolores is his object, after all, and this is a matter that he can leave in her hands.

* * *

When he arrives at the infirmary, he finds himself hesitating at the door to the ER at the realization that Alicia is somewhere here and feels ridiculous; he's certainly not the one who should feel awkward at this moment. Going inside, he observes the controlled chaos, carefully avoiding the attention of those waiting. To his relief, Dolores appears very quickly, smiling tiredly but with genuine welcome.

"Cas," she says. "Everything okay?"

"Yes, thank you," he says politely. "Do you have a few moments?"

She studies his face, then nods, leading him to her tiny office, where a desk (on which, he notes approvingly, is a laptop), several file cabinets, and a Dolores-long couch take up almost all floor space. "Sit down," she says, closing the door and indicating the couch before sinking on the other side with a sigh, stretching her legs before looking at him wryly. "Don't break it to me gently."

"The people still under observation from the catalyst events," he starts. "How are they doing?"

Dolores raises an eyebrow. "Some seem a little calmer, but none I'm comfortable with releasing without someone to watch them yet," she answers. "Now tell me which ones you're interested in."

He thinks about how to phrase this. "Are any of them...asking if you can hear something?"

The change in her expression is immediate. "'Can you hear it?'" He nods. "Four--no, three of them now. The ones--"

"The ones who were involved in the catalyst event at Volunteer Services on Fifth." She nods, lips tight. "One of them has suicided, Dean told me. How are the other three now?"

"Under twenty-four hour watch."

"They're suicidal as well?"

"Suicidal, homicidal, and I don't say this lightly, crazy," she answers flatly. "None of those who were catalyzed are doing great, but those three are something else."

"Do they have family here?" he asks. "Perhaps some pre-existing condition--"

"Yeah, we're looking, but not a lot of luck when the only names we have are 'Beretta', 'Beard', and 'Bushmaster'," she answers. "Those are the only names they'd give when they were talking. I'm not saying they're lying, but something Karl noticed: Beretta was carrying a Beretta, Bushmaster ditto, and Beard--"

"Has a beard?" She nods; he didn't think there were any guns known as 'beard'. "And the one who suicided?"

"Remington, carrying same," she says. "I'm guessing either nicknames or--well, it's not like they're the only people who figured new world, new name, why not pick a cool one? We took pics and used the laser printer to make a few color versions, copied off a few hundred in black and white to show around, but so far, no one's come forward or even asked about missing friends, so--could be loners. We have a lot of those."

"Or they came together," he says absently. Those who catalyze violently tend to be both physically close to each other and from the same towns and even families, their reactions almost simultaneous. While correlation doesn't equal causation, it does make him wonder if familiarity was also a factor; if one's brother or close friend became catalyzed, it would raise the chances of a similar reaction instead of being frozen. 

With one exception to both of those.

"Cas, just going to ask," Dolores says abruptly. "Is this about Dean? He's okay, right? Not...."

Oh. "No, he's not showing any residual effects." Dolores nods in relief, and he realizes the significance. "Dean's the only catalyzed individual who hasn't required--assistance?"

Dolores raises an eyebrow. "Didn't notice until now? Don't look like that: no one else has noticed but me and I'm not spreading it. Not really a surprise, now that I think about it; a hunter's frame of reference is different from a civilian's."

"That's true, yes." He hesitates. "If it's convenient, I'd like to see them."

Dolores's gaze sharpens, but all she says is, "Come with me."

* * *

In the same observation room from which Castiel observed Haruhi only a few days ago, he looks into where the man known as Bushmaster is currently confined. Despite being obviously heavily medicated, he's startlingly restless, albeit groggy, the half-closed eyes flickering constantly as if following invisible trails. Every so often, he'll still, almost relaxing, before he shudders and the strange, half-focused search of empty air begins again.

Castiel glances over the monitors; when Dean was ill, Vera taught him a great deal about how to read them. While he can't know Bushmaster's baseline, he is very much aware sedatives should depress those readings far more. "What medication are you using?"

"Thorazine, five hundred milligrams. See those restraints?" she asks, and Castiel nods; at least, the ones on his wrists, as those presumably on his ankles are hidden by the blankets. "That's the second set, and we don't actually have that many more. There's every indication they'll break their own bones fighting them when they're not drugged to the gills."

Beneath the strict, professional calm, he can hear the fear in her voice; not for herself, but for them.

"They're acting as if they're still catalyzed."

He glances at Dolores when she doesn't respond, then follows her gaze back to Bushmaster, who sluggishly turns his head first to the left, then the right, pausing for a moment before he begins his search of the air again. 

"I've personally treated everyone who was catalyzed," she says slowly. "And I read everything I could get on what happened and listened to them as well. The geas doesn't make anyone suicidal; at least, before or during an event. After, that much makes sense; besides guilt, that thing is literally fucking with their brain chemistry, and science knows just enough about the brain to know we know shit. It'll take time for that to get back to normal in everyone--assuming once the geas breaks, everything resets to original manufacturer settings--and if we're lucky, the worst they'll deal with is some PTSD and some new or upgraded phobias. 

"So far, everyone else who was catalyzed is reacting pretty much exactly like I'd expect; shock followed by panic, guilt, depression, suicidal thoughts, and a few actual attempts; it's so predictable I named it Post-Geas Stress Disorder. Those four...it was almost six hours before they woke up, and shock, panic, yeah, but they just got quiet after that. Wouldn't talk much--hell, it was an effort to even get their attention--and every so often, they'd ask--"

"'Can you hear it'," Castiel finishes, watching Bushmaster begin the pattern again. "How did Remington succeed in his suicide attempt?"

"I fucked up," she says flatly. "They were calm, so I just ordered them watched and keep trying to get them to talk. There was an emergency near the shift change, everyone got distracted, and somehow, Remington got left alone. Maybe five minutes, but any amount of time would have been too long; he stripped the bed, knotted the sheets, got them looped around both legs of the bed, and one of my orderlies arrived just in time to see him make a running dive out the window. That gave him enough momentum to break his neck."

On impulse, Castiel reaches to squeeze her shoulder. "I'm sorry." She nods shortly, muscles tight beneath his hand. "And the other three--when they found out, they became more...."

"Not exactly." She turns to look up at him. "Valli was handing off Beretta to Lois, and Beretta suddenly started screaming. They got her restrained--barely--and Lois sedated her before going to get me. She saw Remington's door was open and then heard the orderly screaming. Same happened with Beard and Bushmaster, according to Sree and Chess. Luckily, Sree's the official medic for patrol and is good at the running tackle, and Chess is literally six feet five inches of solid muscle; he just picked up Bushmaster and held him a foot off the ground until help came. Used to be a college linebacker," she says with a fragile smile. "Not gonna lie, he's my favorite orderly these days."

Castiel nods, watching as Bushmaster relaxes. By now, he can predict to the second when he'll rouse again, and at the count of fifteen, his eyes flicker half-open, head slowly turning as he looks around the room again.

"Since then, if they're not drugged, they're screaming if we can hear it and to make it stop, and fighting the restraints hard enough that Beretta nearly broke her wrists before I raised her dose," Dolores continues rigidly. "Bushmaster snapped his restraints once already, and I had to replace them all this morning from the strain." Her eyes narrow, and following her gaze, he sees Bushmaster's arm twisting sluggishly, pulling weakly at the restraints. "Like that."

"How long has it been since his last dose?"

"Thirty minutes," she answers. "I had them on twenty-five before Remington suicided, and it took a hundred to bring them down. Now, I'm raising it every six hours, and six hours from now, I'll have to administer it intramuscularly because they'll be fighting too hard by that point to risk oral. And the only thing it's doing is keeping them _relatively_ docile."

Bushmaster's wrists twist again in the cuffs, eyes darting around the room in slow-motion desperation, and nauseated horror washes through him. Whatever haunts their minds still chases them even now, undeterred, and they're trapped in bodies that won't respond to their fear, unable to escape, barely able to even _move_ \--

"Has Alison seen them?"

"I haven't asked her," Dolores says quietly, and he hears in her voice how much that has costed her. "If it's the geas--the risk--"

"I understand." Alison's stability is far too fragile and almost wholly now a matter of sheer will; the risk is unacceptable, to privilege the suffering of these three people over the lives of everyone in Ichabod. As he watches, Bushmaster's eyes squeeze shut, a fifteen second moment of relief before it starts again, and that decides him. "The six hours after you first increased the dose, you said that worked? The monitors--did they showed that they were not experiencing distress or were they simply unable to physically respond to it?"

"Blood pressure's autonomic, but their sympathetic pathways aren't suppressed," she answers. "If it was happening then, it would have shown there, same as now. Why?"

"What about when they sleep?"

"I give them a sedative," she answers. "Same--at least, for a couple of hours--but--"

"Sedation with a hypnotic," he answers. "And fentanyl patches, if I remember correctly. Opiates also have euphoric qualities, which might help. It may not entirely suppress whatever is happening to them, but--"

"You want to put them in a _coma_?" Dolores asks blankly.

"It's caught them," he answers, staring at Bushmaster as he starts his helpless search again; _can you hear it?_. "All the medication is doing is inhibiting their response, not what is happening to them. They're trapped on those beds in their bodies: they cannot run, they cannot fight, and it tortures them with endless terror at its leisure while we watch and do nothing."

"You think I don't _know that_?" Dolores demands, his own horror in her voice. "I'm not an idiot; every time I give them a dose, I get all I'm doing is the chemical version of tying them up and leaving them to--whatever that's doing to them. If I could crawl inside their minds and drag that shit out, I'd do it in a heartbeat!"

"We can't take it from them," he says. "But we can try and take them away from it." 

"There's no guarantee it won't fuck with them even then," she argues, but her expression is at odds with her words. "People placed in artificial comas have reported being trapped in semi-lucid nightmares, and that can't be an improvement. And what might happen to them--if only in their minds....."

"Even if it does, this combination should assure memory formation is suppressed," he answers. "Whatever it does to them there, they won't remember it, and that would be a mercy. If the possibility is all we have to offer, it's more than they have now, and we must try."

"If this is the geas--"

"If it is, this version of it is being shared now by someone who hasn't been catalyzed," he answers, and Dolores sucks in a breath. "Micah is currently exhibiting similar behavior, albeit it seems only to manifest in distraction." Which might mean that this version has five victims, and one of them independent of those at Volunteer Services that day.

Dolores hesitates. "If we do this--and I'm not saying we are--how long are we talking about?"

Until Alison has rested sufficiently not to be a danger to herself and others. "A few days," he answers. "A week at most. If nothing else, it will give them some relief from their suffering, and that alone would make it worth doing. If it's the geas--either the one that caused their reaction in Volunteer Services or a newer mutation on the original--then it won't last forever. A week in an induced coma is the most effective isolation possible; that may be enough to hasten the burnout process." Then he considers the current state of Ichabod and more specifically, what the medical staff is already dealing with. "If possible, I should say. The demands on you and your staff--"

"We can do it." Her eyes are on Bushmaster. "Thorazine has a thirty hour half-life, but if we're going to do this, we can't wait that long." She's silent for a long moment. "I need time to prep, get my staff together, and everyone get a very fast boot camp on how to care for comatose patients." She makes a face. "Now just have to see what we can do about a bigger room to hold all of them...."

"The wing where Sudha is located has several rooms ready for habitation, and only five occupied at this time," he says, and Dolores face softens affectionately. "Nate was concerned that more women in labor than currently present might appear unexpectedly and wanted to assure they could be accommodated."

Dolores smiles. "In case you're curious, between remodeling efforts, he also repaired several doors so they actually close, got two to actually open, did something to the sink in the breakroom to make it drain, and two bathrooms are now fully operational on the second and third floor. He can do plumbing, too?"

Remembering Home Improvement Weeks One and Two, Castiel recalls that Nate (and Zack's) cabin was one of the only three with a fully functional toilet, shower, and both bathroom and kitchen sinks. "He's truly a man of many talents."

Dolores nods. "I better start getting this going."

"You'll need someone to help with the patients once the thorazine wears off," he says casually. "I'm not a linebacker, of course, but I think I can be of assistance and spare one of your orderlies potential injuries. Perhaps even two."

Dolores's mouth twitches, giving him an exaggerated once-over, but there's understanding, too. "If it wouldn't be an imposition."

"Not at all," he answers, just managing to get ahead enough to open it for her and is rewarded with a smile. Then he remember his other object and closes the door quickly. "I saw Cathy on my way here." Dolores' expression darkens. "She had--or will soon have--a black eye."

"She was okay earlier," Dolores says, frowning. "I don't know if Dean told you, but she's banned from the infirmary. I let her say goodbye to Carol, and she said she was going home."

"How long ago?"

"Right after I talked to Dean." No, this was far more recent, within the last hour, perhaps. "I'll check on her when I go off," she says decisively. "Make sure everything's okay. Thanks for telling me."

"You're welcome," he answers politely, and waits for her to precede him before following her out.

* * *

So as it turns out (no surprise), waiting around in front of the South Gate is just as boring as Headquarters. He cut short--not voluntarily, but he let it happened--fun with Cas for this; what the fuck was wrong with him?

Which may (partially) explain why this is the highlight of his wait.

 _"Fine,"_ Jeremy says shortly, and Dean hopes to God they didn't interrupt something--as in, there was nothing to interrupt. _"Uh--"_ The background sound of something seems to get Jeremy's attention, and then Jeremy says, sounding almost frantic, _"Sorry, I dropped something!"_

"It's fine," Amanda says soothingly. "Over and out." Turning it off, she cocks her head. "Okay, maybe you were right. Second time he sounded like that: not the bathroom."

"Seventeen," he says smugly. "Mel, you handle the next one."

"Dean, come on, they're kids," Mel says in amusement. "They do this. Why put roadblocks in the way of true lust?"

"Amanda, quick question," he says. "Maimouna really training for your next class?"

"Oh yeah," she says in satisfaction. "She's semi-regular on patrol, and she's in the field working out every chance she gets. Top thirty, easy. She'll definitely make the cut." Her expression changes. "Oh."

"That's why," he says, looking around the jeep and seeing understanding. "Joelle's wearing her mom's latest creation: stiletto-scarf. That's who's going to be living a cabin over from one of us. Any questions?"

Everyone shakes their heads.

Climbing out of the jeep, Dean glares at the wall but can't keep it up; it's a goddamn awesome wall. "I need air," he explains, which just means Amanda and Joe follow him out because who the hell knows. Crossing to the front of their jeep, the engine abruptly cuts off, and he glances at the windshield to see Sarah looking back and sighs. 

"Dean?" Joe asks.

"I feel like I'm forgetting something," he explains. "Something really obvious."

"Like obvious as in front of you, or obvious like the six year old test?" He and Joe both turn to look at Amanda. "Like a plan that if you told a smart six year old, he'd see all the problems immediately and make fun of you?"

Dean blinks slowly. "Where do you get this shit?"

"The internet, when we still had it. It's a pretty good test," she argues. "Kids are self-centered, world revolves around them, right? They're not looking at the plan and thinking 'This will save a thousand people'. They think, 'I don't like this, let's not do it'."

"I see it," Joe offers, probably just to be a dick. "Details, not the big picture."

"Don't worry," she says, reaching to pat Dean's shoulder. "We'd be shitty six year olds; I was drawing salt lines in the motel with two sisters below the age of three asleep on the bed. Could change a diaper and perform an exorcism and not miss a beat."

He licks his lips. "Sam hated his diaper." She nods, not pretending to be surprised, and yeah, he figured she knew about him having a brother, though he doesn't have to look at Joe to know he didn't. No one in Chitaqua knew, Cas said; thinking about it now, though, he wonders how the hell Dean here could have believed it. It's not like Dad was low-key in any sense of the word as far as hunters go.

"Sam?" Joe says, looking between them suspiciously. "Who's Sam?"

Amanda raises an eyebrow, and to his own surprise, he doesn't hesitate. "My younger brother."

"You have a _brother_?" Joe exclaims, outraged. "You told her and not me? Why?"

Amanda bursts into laughter, which isn't helping. "Joe, I--"

"This is _bullshit_ ," Joe continues, aggrieved. "Who's your drinking buddy and hasn't told Cas where all that missing Eldritch Horror is going? Who covered for you when you fainted--"

"Passed out, and no, I didn't," Dean interrupts. "And I go down for missing Eldritch Horror, all of you are going down with me. Also, I just found out about yours!"

Amanda takes a moment from gasping to say, "He got you there. I knew about Joe's brother," she says, which turns Joe inarticulate with hypocrisy. "Joe, calm down. Campbells are an old name in hunting, but the Winchesters made some serious roads in reputation as far as that goes. You can't be a hunter and _not_ know those names."

Dean nods. "My dad, yeah--"

"You're kidding, right?" she asks incredulously. "Dean and Sam Winchester did more in four years than John managed in his entire run." Seeing his expression, she shrugs. "Might have been a fangirl."

"You were _not_."

"A little," she admits. "Not knocking your Dad or anything, but Mom kind of loathed him. Didn't think a woman with kids should be hunting with her husband. Got on Dad about letting her, so Dad, not his biggest fan."

"Uh." Dean wonders if he said that one day or two after leaving him and Sam at the nearest shitty motel with questionably working water and a pile of ones on the table. "Sorry about that."

"And you never...." Joe looks between Amanda and Dean. "Hunter thing?"

"Let's say need to know is what a hunter wants to tell when it comes to family." Joe nods in belated understanding. She looks between them for a moment, then at Dean. "I know what you want to ask: go ahead."

"How long has it been?"

"Coming on ten years," she says lightly, climbing onto the hood of the jeep, one leg curled beneath her while her free leg swings idly. "They were nice about it, but they had lives: the kids were old enough to ask questions, husbands were getting suspicious about their mysterious shopping trips, jobs were hard, PTA was fighting, pets missed them too much, I think. It's been a while, so…."

"Yeah," he says, throat tight. "That sounds about right."

"What?" Joe is abruptly standing in front of them both. "They _what_?"

"Cut their losses," she answers, and only Dean knows what it cost to say it; true things always hurt the worst. "Before you explode, Joe, ask yourself which is easier; living every day wondering if your sister will ever contact you for another meeting and knowing if she doesn't, that means she's dead, or cutting contact yourself and living with maybe. They picked the option that kept them sane."

"I'd pick my brother," Joe answers, quieter but no less intense. "And he picked _me_ and always has. That's _bullshit_ ; you deserved better than that." Amanda looks startled. "Their families never asked what happened to Aunt Amanda…." He stills, and it's weird, watching Joe right now, seeing an outsider react to a fact of his and Amanda's lives. "They never knew about you?"

"Their dad died in a hunting accident," she says. "Their mom in a car accident: not even close, but whatever. After that, all they had was each other. An older sister who dropped out of high school at fourteen and got her first felony before she needed a bra, that shit doesn't fly in the Junior League."

"They...." Joe bites back the words, looking away, but Dean figures he knows what he was about to say, language unimportant. "All those names you gave me for the border...."

"The aliases they knew about and could use, if they remembered. They could live with maybe," she answers, a catch in her voice on the last word. "Looks like I can't. I went looking for them when this started, to warn them, fuck their secrets, but they were already gone; Croat took half the town before anyone knew it was epidemic, and the cover up was the kind you hide from if you don't want to disappear. They might not have been hunters, but I taught them everything they knew. There's selective memory and then there's stupid. I'll forgive the first if they prove they weren't the second. I'll find them eventually, it's just going to take some time." Then, "Okay, something else, I don't care what."

"Yeah," Dean says. "Amanda," he adds, waiting for her to look at him. "We'll find them."

"Damn straight," Joe interjects. "So I can tell them what I think of them. After your better fucking be loving reunion, that is."

She laughs shortly, searching their faces. "Okay."

"Cool." Half-turning, Dean looks back at the peaceful, snowy fields, the scattering of livestock beneath the hazy moonlight peering between the color-slashed clouds above, not really surprised to see the girl again.

She wanders by a massive bull--he's pretty sure Teresa told them they don't house him with the cows for reasons--and it lifts a head almost as big as her torso. He tenses, opening his mouth to tell Sarah to detour toward the crazy girl playing with bulls, _now_ ¬--but as she reaches out in passing, it lowers its head submissively and leans in when she scratches behind ears almost as large as her hand. She turns her head and looks right at him, brown eyes dancing with laughter, and for a moment, all the worry falls away, peace spreading through him. Two of the sheep--Christ, they're not sheep, he forgot about that--jog up to her, and she gestures toward the jeep. When they turn, Dean's breath catches at the sight of the guy's too familiar face, fear and pain washed away, and fights down the impulse to return his cheerful wave. That, he thinks vaguely, would be weird.

Suddenly, all three stiffen, and he sees it echoed across the field as the others--a lot, he realizes in surprise--emerge from the knots of cows and goats, their heads turning northwest, toward Ichabod proper.

"Dean!" Joe says, and Dean shakes himself, turning to see him looking worried. "You okay?"

"Yeah, fine," he answers, looking at the field again: just cows. He's not sure what he expected. "Hey, Amanda, tell Mel to check in with Jeremy now, would you?"

* * *

Leaving Dolores to her duties, Castiel follows the irresistible smell of coffee; he's aware the infirmary is supposed to be substandard, but that does not make it any less coffee. Half way across the room, however, he becomes aware of a furtive movement to his right, and turns to see Alicia slumped in one of the chairs and staring at him in utter horror.

He never had any intention of having private conversation with her today (or, perhaps, ever again), which may explain why he hears himself say, "I'm getting coffee."

Alicia unfreezes enough to nod. "Coffee's good." 

She winces, and Castiel forces himself to turn away and continue his path to the coffee pot, which doesn't look at all inspiring (rather like a tar-tinged sludge) but is still coffee. Going about the soothing ritual of coffee-preparation, it's only when he takes his first sip (execrable, but again, coffee) that he notes there's a second cup on the counter and--for reasons unknown--he seems to have prepared that one, too. He tells himself it's the habit of refusing to waste anything that makes him decide not to pour it on the floor (also, sugar causes a very unpleasant stickiness that he hates cleaning himself). Picking it up, he turns and grimly marches across the room before extending the cup.

"Oh God," she says, staring at it like it might attack her. "You got me _coffee_?"

"It's not personal," he says, shoving it toward her (careful, however, not to slop the hot contents and burn her). She takes it automatically, like it might contain cyanide (or possibly, hoping it does). "I made two and--waste not want not."

"Right." She takes a deep breath, looking at it blankly for a long, horrible moment. "Cas--"

"You're very sorry for attempted murder, yes, I gathered." She flinches, which he pretends to ignore. "Dean left with Damiel's and Lee's teams to wait at the South Gate. When are Matt and Jody supposed to return from their shift at the YMCA?"

"About an hour," she answers, and belatedly, she takes a polite sip. It improves nothing at all that her expression matches his own at the ungodly (yet still unmistakably coffee) flavor. "Right. Thanks. I'll--uh, finish up and--"

"You understand that Dean wouldn't send you on a suicide mission," he says abruptly. "Or any of his soldiers, for that matter."

"Yeah," she says quietly, eyes fixed on her cup. "I noticed that about him. Wasn't even surprised."

"Then you can guess how he'll feel if he discovers after the fact that you planned to make it one." She doesn't answer. "So let me ask you this: are you planning to incite Erica to kill you, or are you simply assuming it will happen without your connivance?"

"It's not part of the plan, no."

"But you won't try too hard to avoid it."

"Mission comes first," she counters. "Like I told Dean, I get what happens next--"

"Public confession, trial--though why that part, I have no idea, since you already decided the verdict--and the penalty, exile," he interrupts. "Did you truly think that Dean--of all people--would shoot you in cold blood, especially over two years after the fact?"

"I wasn't thinking." Her eyes flicker up and then away. "If I had been--"

"Or was it simply wishful thinking?" She flinches, shutting her eyes, and the cup in her hand begins to tremble. "You realize this didn't have to happen? He never should have left Chitaqua alive."

Alicia opens her eyes to gaze at him in confusion. "Who?"

"Micah." 

Alicia's expression dissolves into bitter amusement as she huffs a surprised laugh. "If I'd known this would happen--"

"Not for this, though yes, that would be a very pleasant consequence," he retorts. "For the crimes that he committed against you."

Alicia's laughter cuts off.

"If I had known...." He thinks of her during those months on the training field, the injuries she received: how many were incurred in the line of duty and how many within the questionable sanctity of what by no stretch of the imagination represents the covenant of marriage? Two weeks: when he thinks of her with a gun outside his cabin, his imagination conjures what state she might have been in, what injuries were hidden beneath her clothes: did she limp the length of the camp to his cabin nursing bruised ribs; did a twisted wrist make it difficult for her to raise her gun; was anything recently dislocated; how badly did it hurt to even breathe? A hundred things would make every movement agony, that she would have hidden as reflexively as she breathed, as she'd demonstrated so often on the training field. 

He's watched her dance until her shaking legs wouldn't hold her upright and never complain; he's seen her fight, bleeding from half a dozen wounds and never seem to notice; outside Ichabod, she ran far beyond her strength, baiting Croats to protect Dean, and even a twisted ankle wasn't enough to do more than slow her down before she kicked a hole in the postern door. He's seen her collapse in exhaustion, but never, once, has he ever seen her stop.

It chases you, she told them; and sometimes, it catches up. Eventually, no matter how fast you run, it will catch up; it's only a matter of time.

"If I'd known," he says, "I would have killed him myself."

She stares at him, eyes wide. "What? Why?"

"His guilt is unquestionable, his repentance non-existent: he is a dog, Alicia, and you don't reason with a dog that bites; you eliminate it so it cannot do it again."

She looks at him, cup forgotten in her hand. "Who was she?"

"Who?"

"The woman whose dog you didn't kill." Startled, he's unable to look away from the curious blue eyes. "There was one, wasn't there? When you were an angel, and you couldn't--"

He laughs shortly. "We were the Host on earth; our actions upon the earth were above reproach, our judgement without flaw; of _course_ I could have killed him."

She wets her lips.

"Genocide, murder, torture, rape, abuse: they're so common, they're barely worth commentary. Your birthright was free will, and we saw no reason to act when your crimes were only against each other unless ordered to do so. With rare exceptions, of course."

She nods mute agreement, aware of one of those, at least.

"Unless a human brought themselves to our attention, we didn't even see you," he adds bitterly, remembering the wry note in Alison's voice when she told him that. 

"How'd she get your attention, then?"

"She had it from the moment of her birth." Sitting back, he finishes his coffee and sets the cup aside. "The gods are capricious, and Creation is but the setting for their games, human lives pieces theirs to use, ignore, or destroy. Almost fifty years before her birth, I acted as messenger for Diana to her grandfather, to tell him that his request for vengeance was granted. He wasn't aware, of course, that as with all the gods' favors, there would be a personal price to be paid for it."

"And let the games begin?" she asks wryly.

He nods. "His daughter Sempronia was barren--by accident or by divine will, I don't pretend to know but can easily guess--and in her fortieth year, she attended the _Lupercalia_ in Rome, the festival honoring Lupa, the wolf who suckled Romulus and Remus. When the _Luperci_ ran through the streets clothed only in the fresh skin of goats, any woman who wished for a child would stand so they might be struck with the blood or flesh of those skins and be granted fertility. Sempronia was struck as they passed, and thus, fertility was granted and she gave birth to a daughter, named Fulvia in accord with her father's _gens_. As a child of the _Lupercalia_ , Fulvia belonged to the gods by right of divine intervention, and as the authors of her birth, they had the right to influence the course of her life."

"That's bullshit," Alicia says hotly. "They did that a lot?"

"Not as often as they wished, but yes," he answers. "The restrictions of free will chafed at them, and they were creative in finding ways to circumvent it."

She looks her opinion of that before her expression changes to curiosity. "What was she like?"

"Extraordinary," he says softly, remembering. "She was of high birth and great wealth, but it was her intelligence and will that defined her. Unfortunately, she was born a woman at a time when women--especially those of her class--could do very little, which limited her ability to do what she would have done if she'd been born male: stand for office, lead an army, conquer the known world."

"That kind of girl," Alicia says in satisfaction. "I like her already."

"She was put out, of course, but compensated by marrying men who would carry out her will. Two of them were excellent choices indeed: Clodius and Curio were intelligent, ambitious, and knew her value as friend and partner as well as wife and lover. She guided them to the pinnacles of their respective careers under the aegis of Gaius Julius Caesar, Consul, General, and Dictator of Rome."

Alicia is gratifyingly impressed. "And the third?"

"The third...." The flare of remembered anger hasn't faded in all this time. "Marcus Antonius. He was Gaius Julius' cousin: a skilled general, poor politician, and even poorer excuse for a man. He married her for her name and wealth, but primarily for the power she wielded, both that she inherited from her family and her husbands and that she gained by her own efforts alone, but he did believe he loved her and she did truly love him. Like her first two husbands, he was guided by her to power and prominence, steering him through the politics he scorned and minimizing the disastrous mistakes he made in his mindless pursuit of power. However, as he gained power, so grew his desire for more, and as he was with his wives before her, so he became again; in his anger and frustration, he began to beat her."

She sucks in a breath.

"When I felt her...I would come to her, and stand witness to a dog who pretended to be a man as he beat her. When he finally left her, I'd watch her gather herself again, call her physician--an Egyptian priest-physician who had long served her family, one whose loyalty and discretion were unquestionable, for concealment was her first object--to see to her injuries, and go about her life once again. 

"As she healed, Antonius brought her rich gifts--for even to himself, the dog pretended to be a man--and she would pretend the wounds within her were healed as well. They weren't," he whispers. "A wound untreated becomes septic, infecting all within its demesne; there were dozens, hundreds inflicted over the years of their marriage, all suppurating, and they poisoned her and then slowly ate her alive. She pretended she could not feel them, and the dog who wore the flesh of a man never saw them and would not have cared if he did. I could see them all."

A faint sound makes him look up sharply, horrified to see the tears running down her face; he should have realized.... "I should not--" he says, starting to get up.

"No," she whispers, letting them continue to fall unchecked from reddening eyes. "Tell me the rest."

"Alicia--"

"He killed her, didn't he?" she demands, voice raw. "Tell me what happened to her, for fuck's sake!"

Slowly, Castiel lowers himself back into his chair. "Antonius was offered marriage to a woman of very high birth, sister to his greatest enemy; he thought the alliance would bring him the power he craved. He told Fulvia that he'd divorced her, they fought, and he beat her very badly and then left. He sent word to her friends to deny her protection and succor; he assumed, of course, that she'd either die of her injuries or, friendless, she'd kill herself, and with her death, he'd gain control of her fortune.

"As soon as she could travel, Fulvia gathered her household and fled, though she was not well and only grew worse," he continues, forcing the words from between his teeth. "Her friends closed their doors to her in their cowardice and fear, offering empty apologies and encouragement but nothing more. She retreated to her home in Athens, where she closeted herself with a scribe and her physician for half a day, then sent them to Rome. She then ordered a hot bath before dismissing her household, and when they were gone, she lowered herself into the bath and cut her wrists." Alicia's face drains of color. "Not for the reason you may think: Fulvia was Roman. From birth to death, their lives were their own, and they gave no one the right to take what is theirs. Like her grandfather, her grandmother, and his brother before her, her life would be taken by her hand alone. Anything less would be beneath her."

Alicia's shoulders begin to shake. "How'd I guess that's how the story ended? What the hell was wrong with her, to let him--"

"What was wrong with _him_ ," Castiel interrupts hotly, "that he would beat his wife simply because she was there? What was wrong with _him_ , that he would make her believe herself so flawed that she deserved it? Fulvia walked the Forum Romanum where women never ventured, like her great-grandmother before her, and made it her own. She marched on Rome and she _conquered it_ , in her own name, with an army she recruited beneath her banner. She mourned two good husbands to whom she was beloved wife, partner, and collaborator in all they did, and raised seven children; there was no flaw in her. She could have been none of those things, however; she could have been cruel, and neglectful, and a monster herself, and it would have made no difference. The flaw was always within _him_!" 

He sees her in her bloody bath again, remembering the chilled fingers he touched as he took her eating knife and set it aside and curled those fingers in his own. All that was light had almost been quenched within her, but only almost; even then, she was so bright, the core of her still untouched and shining as brightly as it had the moment of her birth. 

_"Qafsiel Kaziel, Cassiel, Messenger, you who were Castiel to my great-grandmother, my grandfather, and my grandmother before me," she whispered, "I entreat you to grant me a single request."_

_"You have but to name it," he told her. "If it's in my power, it will be done."_

_She clutched his hand, eyes barely a slit of brilliant brown. "Tell me: will they reach Rome safely? Will it work?"_

"I regret I didn't kill him," he says softly. "Both of them."

The silence that descends between them lingers, and he wonders uncertainly how this conversation went so dramatically off course. Though it's possible that's because he never expected to have a conversation with her and therefore had no actual course to follow. 

Getting to his feet, he says, "I should recall your team. Please report to the Situation Room when you're done here."

"Cas," she says just as he reaches the door, fingers only inches from the doorknob. Take it in your hand, he tells himself; open the door; leave. He turns around. "I want you to know that--that I'm sor--"

"Not nearly enough."

She flinches. "I know. It doesn't mean much after two years--"

"It means absolutely nothing hours before you plan to die," he interrupts. "Water on the sand, words written in air: those have more permanence than repentance followed by suicide by proxy."

"I'm not going to--"

"I know you," he says, crossing back to look down at her. "I trained you as a hunter and then in your chosen weapon that's also mine; I went on missions with you, I went to save Beanie with you, and I had sex with you. Many times." Alicia makes a face. "If you're under the impression that somehow, after all of that, I managed not to gain some knowledge of your character--and this against my own inclinations, I assure you--you must be insane."

"You never knew me!" she exclaims, jumping to her feet. "You didn't know my real name is Stephanie, that I'm married to Micah, or that I killed ten kids before I ever met you! For fuck's sake, you didn't even know that I was one of the ones who tried to kill _you_!"

"It's not as if you did a good job of it!" he retorts; where did that come from? "I also don't know what you had for breakfast. What does that have to do with anything?"

Alicia opens and closes her mouth. " _Breakfast?_ What _the hell_ \--"

"I don't have to know all that you've done to know who you are," he answers. "And I don't need to know the minutia of your past to know who you are _now_. That person is going on a suicide mission and is only making the minimum amount of effort to convince me otherwise!"

"Why does it matter if I am?" she demands.

"You must be joking."

"You taught us payment must be rendered, one way or another," she says, eyes tear-bright. "We pay for our sins, Cas, come on; you taught us that, too. This way--"

"Don't pretend this is about anyone or anything but yourself."

She looks away. "I didn't need the geas to tell me my greatest fear was chasing me; it always has, and four days ago, it caught up. I knew it would happen one day, and best case scenario was dying before it did. I can't live with it, Cas."

"Yes, you can," he corrects her. "You just don't want to. Matt, Jody, your friends, your comrades at home and here: their grief, their pain is a cheap price to pay indeed. It's not as if you're the one that will have to pay it."

"Fuck you," she whispers. "Dean decides on exile, that's better than I deserve, but what then? Where do I go? Just pick a town in the infected zone and hope they let me stay? Make a new life all over again?"

"You wouldn't be the first who has had to do so, nor the last," he answers. "I don't doubt at all you could do it, and do it well."

"With _what_? You don't understand: me--Alicia...she wasn't real, but until now, I could pretend she was. Now that's gone, and--"

"That--she-- _you_ \--are standing right in front of me," he says impatiently. "Is it a human peculiarity, that you miss this so often? You're a thousand people, Alicia, and you have been and may be a thousand more, but they're all still _you_. If one could simply discard oneself when one is dissatisfied and start anew, I would have done it. It would be far easier--and take far, far less time--than having to resign oneself to doing something with the somewhat substandard material you have at hand."

Alicia's glare is interrupted by an unexpected laugh. "God, I can't believe you're reassuring me about my character after I tried to kill you."

"Is it working?" he asks curiously.

She shuts her eyes, and for what feels like years, there's nothing but the sound of their breathing; even the background of the infirmary only outside the door fades into silence.

Then she looks up at him. "It's not that easy."

"It's not supposed to be," he answers. "Before you try to solve the ineffable meaning of life inherent in that statement, consider this: you haven't tried to live with it yet, so how on earth can you be sure you _can't_? We haven't even survived Ichabod, and while the odds are in our favor, according to Lena, there's every chance that the Misborn will take care of the problem without your connivance. Under the circumstances, I'm not certain what urgency there is to accomplish it _now_ ; it's not as if on the off-chance we survive, you won't have time later."

She bites her lip, perhaps realizing her presence (or absence) might very well be a factor in those odds. It's not as if Chitaqua suffers from a surfeit of even semi-competent team leaders.

"Well, when you put it like that...." Scrubbing a fist over her eyes, she takes a deep breath. "Look, no guarantees here, but just imagining Erica having the satisfaction of standing over my dead body...." She shakes her head. "Also," she adds in surprise, "I do feel reassured, yes. Not sure of what, though, you know what I mean?"

"Dean has that effect on me regularly," he agrees. "It's strange, but pleasant. How long do you need to finish here? You should begin preparations very soon."

"Just final check of my patients." She starts for the door. "Look, I'll run and get Matt and Jody myself, catch them up on the way to HQ. That okay?"

He almost makes the mistake of nodding. "Dean's order regarding your silence on the subject of your involvement stands. That includes your team."

"It wasn't like that," she says immediately. "He didn't--I mean, I begged him not to tell you--anyone--and the order thing was just, he made it up to, uh...." She trails off, eyes narrowing on him before she sighs. "Okay, which part?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You trained me twice, went on missions with me, helped me take out a child killer, and we had a lot of sex," she says, rolling her eyes. "I know all your poker faces. So which part did I fuck up?"

"I wasn't aware there was a specific order, just assumed. He would have wanted more information before taking any action, and it's been rather busy recently."

"You know, that much I guessed," she says. "Mostly, though, I think that he wanted to make sure you didn't find out before he could tell you himself." She reaches for the doorknob. "Meet you in the Situation Room?"

"Yes," he says belatedly. "Of course."


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't get worried about the chapters going up; I split Chapter 21 because it was long even by my standards, but it works better together, just too much scrolling.

_\--Day 157, continued--_

Castiel considers the necessity, then turns to the back stairs. As their commander, he should assure James and his team are doing well, and as he is here anyway, assure that Sudha is comfortable or feeling threatened so he can deal with it with prejudice; he definitely has enough minutes for that.

When he reaches the new maternity wing, the sound of cheerful voices and laughter, muffled by the walls and distance, is pleasant to hear. Several gravid women--once stuck in series of uncomfortable rooms and moved frequently due to the number of people needing treatment--are now in residence (with their families, of course). The benefits of privacy and comfort during such a time cannot be underestimated; when one is intent on continuing the species, distractions of any kind should be discouraged. All know, of course, that Vera successfully performed an emergency Caesarean in the middle of the ER--the mother, Alexa, is among those in residence--but it's generally agreed that is not a recommended method of successful childbirth and should be avoided if possible.

He finds Mira sitting outside the door of Sudha's room in the only remaining chair from last night, straightening with a smile when she sees him. "Hey, Cas."

"How is everything?"

"Good," she says cheerfully. "We got everyone settled in the new rooms, did some fetching and carrying, and showed them how to make salt lines and everything. Uh--we didn't want them nervous, so we explained we're assigned to this wing to protect it if anything happens." She tips her head back further, watching his expression, and he realizes she's wondering if they exceeded their authorization. 

"Excellent job," he tells her, and she relaxes. "I suppose I should ask: is this wing defensible?"

"I pity anything coming up those stairs trying to pull any shit here, that's all I'm saying," she says with pardonable pride. "Oh, almost forgot: that priest dropped by on his rounds and told us not to worry, anything coming out of the pipes is covered. Turn on tap, fill cup, throw at demon: we're good."

"What priest?" he asks in confusion, then realizes he must have come with the other refugees.

"Father Francis," she answers. "Really nice guy: almost makes me want to convert."

"What did he do to the pipes?" Blessing them is a very good idea, but it would only work until all the water in those pipes was consumed, which in the infirmary would be very quickly.

"Not the pipes themselves," she corrects him. "The water treatment plant and the lagoon or whatever. He was there this morning and apparently blessed everything wet in sight or something. Also, we got word that two more pumps are up: the volunteers told sleep to fuck itself and got shit done, so town-wide drinking water is a go. For everything else...."

"There's latrines," he says in resignation, but most of his mind is involved in how much water was blessed and how long that will last. He needs to learn more about water treatment plants, soon; this would be very useful for defense. It occurs to him that Alicia was raised Catholic; though her current spiritual situation is less certain (read: entirely unknown), the cross she usually wears is one traditionally gifted to a child upon their confirmation. "Is he here now?"

"YMCA," she answers. "He does rounds of the refugees, kind of minister at large or something, Dolores told me. You want to talk to him?"

"I would like to thank him and ask him about his method," he agrees; it's been some time since he formally examined a priest on their spiritual calling, but it's not as if that's something you can forget. "Where are the others?"

She tips her head down the hall. "Dolores asked James and Zack to check the empty rooms, see if any of them are big enough for three beds. They're getting measurements now."

"And Nate?"

"Neer said Sudha wanted him about an hour ago," she says with a fond smile. "Nate's a baby person, did you know that?"

No, he didn't, but then again, Jaya is not exactly a standard baby. "No. Did they say what for?"

"Probably important baby-holding duties. Neer looked a little tired, so maybe Sudha and Rabin wanted some them-time and she wanted a nap. That is one judgy baby, Cas; first time I got to hold her, she just stared at me like--actually," she says, as if experiencing a minor revelation, "it kind of reminded me of you when words aren't enough and disappointment must be glared into us."

"I don't--" 

Mira snorts, which he decides to ignore in the spirit of not bickering with one's subordinates. Glancing at the door, he reluctantly decides against a professional check-in. "Keep me informed if they need anything," he says

She nods cheerfully. "I will."

* * *

"We're up," Amanda says, sliding off the jeep as the South Gate opens and two jeeps come inside. 

As the gate closes, the jeeps turn toward them, and Dean waits as they come to a stop and Lee gets out. "Everything okay?"

"Nothing happened, so I guess," he answers as Jane circles the jeep to join him. "Jane marked down where we saw bodies during our circuit. It's gonna be hell getting them all burned, but better than a strawberry spring happening with them still out here."

Dean winces: yeah, he's not gonna think about that.

"Also, Jane saw something," Lee says, and Jane stiffens, expression conveying 'what, no, God' which Lee ignores. "Figured you might want to know."

"It was nothing," Jane says, tossing a glare up at Lee, who looks back impassively. "I mean, really, it's not like I.... Just off the cuff to my leader making conversation during the drive thing."

Fighting a smile at Lee's impression of long-suffering patience in the face of off the cuff conversation with his second, Dean leans back against the jeep. "Let's hear it."

With a final glare, she sighs. "Midpoint between the South and East gate, that's where most of the Croats still living were. Until Ana and Sean killed them all before we went out," she adds, crossing her arms over her chest unhappily.

"Assholes," Dean says consolingly as Lee's expression turns regretful: crazy, crazy militia. "What about it? Those were the wounded ones, right?"

"So Gretch and Brenda said when they saw them a couple of days ago," she answers. "Not a lot of mobility--I'm pretty sure some were missing key leg parts, as in all the parts--but I've been thinking about it, and that's weird, right? All the fighting was north of the wall, so why would they have come to the southeast?" 

Lee shrugs. "Not like a Croat can't crawl really fast." Dean immediately dismisses the horrifying image that invokes (seriously, was Lucifer literally getting tips from horror movies?). "I agree, though. All the good eating was to the north."

"They're Croats," Dean answers. "Thinking isn't their strong suit."

"No, but prey is a motivation," Jane counters. "I saw bones, picked clean, and I counted four skulls in passing, but there could be more; those were the ones on top of the snow, and there's been at least a couple of falls the last two days."

Dean looks between them. "They ate the weakest."

"They _were_ the weakest," Jane answers, and just as Dean starts to wonder if he's missing something, he remembers the first time he came here: that kid in the alley, then those others showing up almost as soon...as soon as he took the little girl bait.

Croats don't actually need to eat; it's just fun.

"They were a pack," he says experimentally, and Jane and Lee nod, like this should be obvious: okay then. "They wouldn't eat one of their own."

"Not if they hooked up two days ago," she confirms. "That's faster than usual, but who knows, maybe they were all friends or something before. In the shape they were in, they had to be together to keep off the other Croats, which honestly, would motivate me to make friends with my co-monsters fast."

"So what are you thinking?"

Jane makes a face, looking at Lee for reassurance. "Look, has there been any reports of people not coming back from wall duty?"

He tries not to twitch. "You think someone fell and the Croats got them? Several someones, I mean."

"It would explain why the Croats were motivated to come halfway around the walls," Lee offers. "They'd smell them, especially if they were injured. And why they stuck around: those bones were picked clean and cracked for marrow and brain, and even for a Croat, that takes time, especially those missing key finger parts."

Dean doesn't say _they can smell if we're injured?_ because apparently, they can, Jesus Christ. So he knows nothing about hospital protocols or Croats: awesome. "No reports," he answers, which is actually worse, now that he thinks about it. "Wall tourists, maybe?"

Jane winces, leaning against Lee for a moment. "The wall's twenty-something miles; if you know the patrol routes and times--and have a rope and know how to use it--it wouldn't be hard to get up there. With the snow--easy to slip."

"Or suicides," Lee says reluctantly. "This many people...there's no way Volunteer Services can keep up with everyone."

Now Dean gets why she didn't want to say anything. "Any kids?"

"All the skulls I saw were adult-size, if that helps."

That she _saw_ : fuck knows what could be under the snow. "Okay, all of you go to Admin and tell Alison what you saw, so she and Claudia can start inquiries, then food and bed. We got a long day tomorrow. Dismissed." 

"Got it." 

After they leave, Dean finds himself searching the snowy fields; it's too dark to see much now, the moonlight hidden by the clouds, but the only shapes seem to be livestock.

"All right," he says, pushing off the jeep. "Let's move out."

* * *

Castiel just reaches the waiting room again when Karl suddenly comes down the front stairs, a limp body in his arms. "Dolores!" he yells as he jogs into the ER. "Someone get me a stretcher!"

Frowning, Castiel goes the door of the ER just as Karl deposits the body on a hastily acquired stretcher. Dolores appears almost immediately beside him, blocking Castiel's view. "What the _hell_ \--"

"I don't know," he answers distractedly as Dolores takes out a penlight. "Found her collapsed by the second floor stairs, west wing. Haruhi, come on," he says urgently, and Dolores suddenly moves, turning Haruhi's head to the side as she vomits onto the floor.

He's not entirely surprised when Alicia joins him, a clipboard forgotten in one hand. "I thought Haruhi was on duty--"

"She was," he answers. "Here. She and Rosario were assigned to see who came to visit Carol."

Alicia looks blank for a moment. "On the second floor, west wing." Dropping the clipboard, she darts toward the stairs, Castiel just catching her just as she reaches the top. When they reach Carol's room, the door's closed, and after a quick check of the knob--locked, which is unusual--Alicia pivots on the ball of her foot and kicks it open with a crack they can probably hear downstairs, gun in her hand and pointed into the room. 

"I have you," he says, coming up behind her with his own gun drawn and scanning the room as she goes to the occupied bed. Throwing back the blankets, she hisses at the sight of Rosario curled in a fetal position on the mattress, golden brown skin faded to a sickly yellow-brown and eyes closed. 

"Dammit," she mutters, checking her pulse and airway. "She's breathing, good. Cas, can you--"

"I need medical personnel here immediately," he shouts, and seeing a volunteer passing at the end of the hall freeze, adds, "Go tell Dolores that Rosario is unconscious in Carol's room and needs immediate assistance!"

As Alicia sees to Rosario, Castiel searches the room, noting the faint but unmistakable signs of a struggle: a pile of clean sheets on the floor in disarray, an overturned wastebasket half-way under the bed. Checking the waste basket, he finds two bottles and two needles inside, one broken. 

"This was used on them," he says, holding up one of the bottles, and Alicia's jaw tightens.

"She should be okay," she says, one finger resting against Rosario's pulse, and he realizes she's counting. "Probably got her first; Haruhi had time to try and fight, probably didn't get a full hit, thank God. They could have killed them with this; there's a reason we go to school for this shit!"

Vera appears at the door with two volunteers, and Alicia retreats, reciting the stats she took, and Castiel retrieves the other bottle, handing them both to the volunteer Vera indicates.

"Got it," she says briskly, and Alicia tugs him out of the room. "Okay, get this bottle to Dolores," he hears Vera say, but Alicia is still pulling him down the hall at considerable speed and he doesn't hear the rest.

"Alicia?"

"Who would have--Micah's buddies, right, but why would they go after Carol?" Alicia asks distractedly. "Trade her for Micah, right, but how the hell would they get in the drug cabinet without anyone seeing them?"

"Not to mention how they managed to disable Rosario and Haruhi, kidnap Carol, and escape the hospital without anyone noticing," he says as patiently as he can; she, at least, can approach the standard of Dean when faced with uncertainty under normal circumstances. "I doubt this was a kidnapping; she went willingly."

"Cas, the only thing that's keeping Carol sane right now is morphine," Alicia retorts. "And there's no way she got down to the drug cabinet and...." She stops short. "Anyone seen Cathy today?"

"Dolores banned her from the infirmary after what happened this morning," he answers, then looks at Alicia. "I saw her earlier, a block and a half from our Headquarters. She had a black eye and seemed to be limping."

"When?"

"Two, two and a half hours ago," he says. "She lives on Baltimore; why would she be on Second?"

Her eyes widen. "Son of a _bitch_!" Dragging Castiel down the stairs behind her, she shouts, "Karl! Get a trauma team to Chitaqua's Headquarters now!"

Karl looks up from Haruhi's bed. "What?"

"I don't know yet, but assume the worst," she responds, glancing at Castiel when they emerge onto the sidewalk. "Cas--"

"I'm contacting them now." Taking out the hand unit, he switches to the channel for Jeremy at the front desk. "Jeremy, report immediately," he says into the hiss, and waits five eternal seconds as they both begin to run. "Jeremy, answer me." If anything happened to him.... "Jeremy, please answer me."

* * *

"He's not answering," Amanda says neutrally, looking at Dean. "Second time."

Dean stares blindly at the passing landscape outside Ichabod. "Try Cas. Now."

* * *

The lobby is echoingly empty, and that frightens him almost as much as the obviously hastily concealed signs of a struggle at the front desk: the chair is pushed against the wall, and the papers on the desk were obviously quickly picked up after being scattered and tossed into a pile. As Alicia covers the room, he goes to check behind the desk, then in the closet, not sure how relieved he should be that there's no sign of blood. Jeremy and Joelle would not leave voluntarily.

"Where is everyone?" Alicia mutters, gun at the ready as she glances down the hall to the mess.

"It's halfway through the third shift," he answers, reviewing the schedule with a sinking feeling. "Those who aren't on duty are volunteering or sleeping at this time."

"Who's duty officer?"

"Kamal." Who should have been up here to check in with Jeremy at least once an hour.

Alicia jerks her head toward the basement, and nodding, he precedes her, listening carefully before reaching for the doorknob. He's not entirely surprised to find it locked, but the flimsy mechanism breaks easily at a quick punch.

Listening carefully, he proceeds down the stairs and pauses on the last step, Alicia keeping her attention on the door behind them, but there's nothing but silence. More quickly, he jogs down the hall, past the door to the pool, and pausing at the corner, he hears a faint thud. Signaling Alicia, he emerges into the hall and sees two bodies on the floor near the interrogation room in a growing pool of blood.

"Fuck," Alicia breathes, passing him at a sprint and dropping down beside Mark. "Cas, check Gary for me." Taking Mark's pulse, she listens to his breathing before stripping off her jacket and flannel. A knife appears between her fingers as she cuts the flannel into strips, binding the wound on Mark's shoulder quickly before turning her attention to his side and breathes out in relief. "Good boy, magic bullet. Cas?"

Crouching, Castiel presses his fingers against the cool skin of Gary's throat, but it's not needed; this close, he can see the blood-matted hair around the entrance wound above his ear. "No."

Alicia doesn't answer as she makes a pad of another strip and presses it against Mark's side, securing it with two more strips quickly tied together. "Through and through, looks like he tried to staunch it before he passed out," she says steadily, touching his cheek with bloody fingers and after a moment, he slits open his eyes, looking confused. "It's gonna be okay," she tells him. "Did you think Vera needed more practice with surgery? Because that's what she's gonna assume, and sucks to be you when you wake up."

He tries to lick bloodless lips. "Kel said--wait. Be fine." He blinks back tears. "Gary...went. With her. He's okay."

"Got it," Alicia says briskly. "No more talking, okay?"

Castiel looks down at Gary's still face one last time, lips parted for a last breath he'll never take. "I'm going to check the room."

Alicia stands enough to step over his body, gun in her right hand, and places herself between Mark and the door. "Got it," she says, keeping her left on Mark's chest--reassurance, he assumes. "No moving: you fuck up my bandaging, you'll wish for a nice, long, peaceful coma, you know what I mean?"

As he gets closer, he notes the deadlock and hears another thud and faintly, a voice muttering elaborately filthy Nepalese profanity. "Please stand away from the door," he says clearly before unlocking the deadlock and pushing it open to see Kamal holding a chair leg with a dangerous expression.

"Cas," he says in relief, lowering his ad hoc club, and Castiel notes the swelling of his cheek and reddened knuckles before scanning the room: Sheila and Chris holding the legs of one of the broken chairs, the table shoved on its side to provide defense; Jeremy and Joelle, however, are not present.

"Are any of you injured?" he asks; Sheila's knuckles are reddened and visibly swollen, like Kamal's, but Kamal's cheek seems the worst of it.

"We're fine," Sheila snarls. "Kat and Kyle showed about an hour and a half ago, said you'd sent them to get Micah. Didn't buy it, and when Kamal said he was going to talk to you, they drew on us. Next thing we know, we hear Cathy in the hall telling Mark and Gary to throw down their weapons."

"She had a gun to Jeremy's head," Kamal says quietly, and Castiel stills. 

"Joelle?"

"Kept her head," Sheila says with a flicker of approval. "Even when Kat put a gun to her head and got Jeremy to disarm us while Kyle watched Mark and Gary in the hall. Cas, we could have taken them, but Cathy used _herself_ as a bullet shield."

"We don't shoot civilians," he affirms, deliberately not thinking of the feel of Gary's too-cool throat and Jeremy with a gun to his head. "Where are Jeremy and Joelle now?"

"They took them, I guess," Kamal says, and his expression tells Castiel he won't like what he hears next. "They ordered me and Sheila and Chris to the other side of the room--I’m not sure what happened, but Kat shut the door suddenly and then we heard gunshots. He takes a deep breath. "Cas--"

"Son of a _bitch_!" they hear Alicia say, and darting by Castiel, Kamal freezes to see Alicia bending over Mark. "Mark, you didn't lose that much blood, stop being so goddamn dramatic!" She glances back at them. "Someone get upstairs to meet Karl's team and get them down here. Tell them to run."

"I'll go," Sheila says, voice thick as she jogs past them and down the hall. Coming up beside Kamal, Chris looks at Alicia working on Mark, then at Gary.

"He's dead," Castiel says flatly. "Kamal, call everyone in immediately; Headquarters has been compromised. You and Sheila are to secure all exits; no one is to leave this building." He hands Kamal the hand unit. "Contact Dean and tell him everything that happened here and this as well: Cathy assisted Carol to escape the infirmary, and Haruhi and Rosario are being treated for a potential sedative overdose. When you're done, contact Manuel and Teresa, Alison, and also Maimouna; she knows Joelle was here, and she needs to know immediately."

"Dean's going to want to come back--"

"Tell him to continue as planned," Castiel interrupts with a start of horror at the idea of Dean returning now. "He may be the only one who can stop this now, whatever it is. You're in command; when at least two teams have returned, have them begin a full search of every room floor by floor. Dismissed."

Kamal nods, starting down the hall at a run.

"...down here," Castiel hears Sheila saying, followed by the dull sound of feet, and like an expected and deeply desired miracle, Karl appears, bag in hand and taking in the scene at a glance.

"Mark needs blood, soon," Alicia states after reciting off statistics without taking a breath as he kneels across from her. "There may be more upstairs. You got this one or need my help?"

"Got it," Karl says, eyes flickering to Gary and grimacing at her quick headshake. "Sree, take Alicia's place. Lois, Valli, help me get him stable then go after them. Mark, buddy, don't move; you're not helping."

"Thank you," she whispers, wiping her hands on her jeans as she gets to her feet and follows Castiel. "Cas, Drew and Phil...they're her _team_. She wouldn't...."

Kat put a gun to the head of a seventeen year old girl with the intention of using it if she wasn't obeyed; that everyone obeyed her means that they had no doubt of her intentions.

"She would," he says, and Alicia takes out her gun again and starts down the hall. "Chris, accompany Valli and Lois upstairs when they're ready."

* * *

There's no sign of anything amiss when they reach the second floor. Going down the quiet hall, Alicia doesn't bother to check the closed door, barely pausing as she breaks the simple lock with a single kick and going inside. 

Coming in behind her, he sees Drew slumped against the left wall on a sleeping bag, the position of his arms behind him indicating they're bound and a torn bedsheet wrapped inexpertly around his thigh that's worryingly red. Phil is curled on his side with his head in Drew's lap, arms also bound behind him and frighteningly still. 

"Drew," Alicia says coaxingly, kneeling beside him, and his eyes flicker open, dazed but alert: only blood loss, he hopes. 

"Don't move," Alicia orders, checking the bandage with careful fingers as Castiel confirms Phil is breathing normally, pulse beating reassurance against his thumb. "Maybe nicked the femoral, but that's it," she says after a moment, looking Drew in the eye. "Good job keeping still: move that too much, could have ripped it open, and for fuck's sake, don't move _now_."

"I'll deal with the restraints," Castiel says after cutting Phil's, and she shifts over to concentrate on Drew's leg and give him space to work. "Drew, can you feel your fingers?"

He nods, wetting his lips. "Wrist and above the elbow. One--one diagonal. They were in a hurry. Ran out of zip ties."

"Excellent." Reaching behind Drew, he maps them by touch without moving him and risking jostling his leg unnecessarily, visualizing their locations, then takes out his knife. "Continue to be very still; you're bleeding enough already." 

Drew snorts, sighing in relief when he's free. Checking his wrists--Drew didn't make the mistake of fighting them unnecessarily and doing himself damage, but the reddened strips of skin will result in deep bruising--Castiel watches him flex weakly, satisfied. "What happened?"

"Kat and Kyle," Drew spits as Alicia cuts a long strip lengthwise and makes a knot in one end. "Cathy was downstairs, wanted to talk to Kat, and she wouldn't. Wouldn't leave them alone. Jeremy asked for help--" He hisses, face ashen.

"It can wait," Alicia says, looping the sheet around Drew's upper thigh above the wound and twisting the ends together. "Cas, I need something...."

Getting up, he checks their bags and quickly finds a sharpening stone in Phil's, long and narrow enough for a tourniquet. Bringing it to her, he kneels beside Phil, hesitant to do anything before Alicia can examine him.

"Can't wait," Drew whispers as Alicia tightens the tourniquet, sweat standing out on his forehead. "Gonna be out in a few minutes. Phil went down to talk to her; next thing I know, Kat pulls a knife on me." He licks his lips, gritting his teeth for a long second. "Stupid: should have checked her after Sarah left. Went for my leg, no hesitation: guess I'm lucky my throat wasn't in her way."

Alicia loosens the tourniquet, eyes unreadable as her lips move in a silent count. 

"Next thing I know, Kyle's dragging Phil in here, said--" His eyes clear, pain erased for sheer rage. "That he didn't hit him that hard." He meets Alicia's eyes. "Bandaged me up with Kat holding a gun to my head, though, so there's that."

"He's been out the whole time?"

Drew nods tiredly, and Alicia looks at Castiel: that would be a very long time for a concussion. "Two hours, maybe a little less."

"Trade with me," she says, and Castiel steps carefully to Drew's side and takes the tourniquet as Alicia takes his place by Phil. Fingers light, she checks Phil's head carefully, mapping his skull with the tips of her fingers.

"Over here," they hear Chris say, followed by quickly moving feet. "Fourth door on the right."

Valli and Lois appear at the door, taking in the scene at a glance; Lois joins Castiel as Alicia relates Drew's condition, then stills in her examination of Phil.

"Grade Three Concussion from blunt force trauma to the left parietal," she says to Valli. "Open wound, about three, three and a half inches, possibly cracked his skull but can't tell for sure. He was moved, not sure how far: probably happened in the lobby and carried up here after. He's been out about two hours." She meets Cas's eyes. "Probably got hit with the butt of a gun from behind, as cowards like doing that kind of thing."

Kneeling by Phil, Valli bends down to examine the wound before her hands shift to Phil's neck, quick and gentle. "I think his neck's fine. Lois take over for Cas and call the infirmary: we need all the help we can get. Cas, Alicia, we're going to have to move Phil; I need you to help me keep him flat and his head immobile if we can."

"Let me get a sleeping bag down," Alicia says, clearing an empty space on the floor and spreading out the sleeping bag carefully before coming back. "Okay, walk us through."

Valli gives precise instructions to them both--with all the volunteers, it's probably second nature now--and Alicia, at least, knows exactly what to do. In a few moments, Phil is flat on the floor, the blood-clotted hair clearly visible in the dim light As Valli examines Phil again, Alicia helps Drew lie down while Lois speaks to someone in the infirmary on her hand unit.

"Chris," Castiel says. "Stay with Lois and Valli--anything they need, make sure they have it."

"Yes, sir," he says, holstering his gun before going to Valli, who gives him a calmly professional smile as Alicia talks quietly to Drew, only looking up when the hand unit comes to life in Lois's hand and she places the earbud back in her ear.

"Chess is coming with two more teams and an ambulance," she says after listening for a moment. "Lewis left the YMCA infirmary with Usha and is on his way to help Dolores and Vera prep for surgery." 

"What do you need me to do?" Alicia asks as Lois opens her bag.

"We got this," Valli squeezes Alicia's shoulder. "Go do what you need to."

"Thanks," she whispers, getting unsteadily to her feet, and Castiel follows her into the hall, watching her lean back against the wall, head bent. Her tank top, like her hands and the thighs of her jeans, are soaked in blood. "Why didn't I see it?"

"Alicia--"

"I was distracted," she interrupts. "Cathy and Kat only have two things in common: Carol and a reason to make a deal. What the hell did he do to Carol to get her to _recruit_ for him? That's why she wanted to make friends with Kat and Cathy, have a nice, long bonding night last night for the hard sell. But why would Kyle...." She trails off, looking sick. "Cas, people don't trade their souls to get back an ex, do they? That wouldn't...wouldn't work, right?"

"People will try and trade their souls for anything," he answers. "Earlier, Kyle told me that Micah was going to trade you to Erica for the nullification of his contract. When Dean spoke to Micah, he confessed that he'd planned just that but changed his mind when he saw you outside the walls. He must have made a second deal with Erica that night."

Alicia's eyes widen. "Last time he saw me before then, I was putting a knife in him; how the _hell_ did he think he was going to get me to Erica?"

Anyone with any sense of self-preservation would assume--correctly--that being forced to leave Chitaqua at the point of a knife would be an indication of hostility. Castiel remembers that interview with Carol: tired, angry, defensive, afraid...and the unexpected venom that she directed at Alicia. As if, perhaps, Micah took the time to visit her in the infirmary and explain his intentions and reasons just before they arrived to question her. That does sound like something he would do.

"I'm going after them." Alicia pushes off the wall and starts down the hall. "Cathy doesn't know what the hell she's doing, fuck knows what Micah did to Carol to get her to do this, Kat's crazy--"

"--Kyle was misled, and Micah is probably indeed desperate regarding his soul and not thinking clearly," he interrupts, and she stops short. "And lest I forget, Erica was traumatized by the death of her entire family and losing her child."

She turns around, jaw tight. "I'm not excusing them--"

"Yes, you are."

"They fucked up, fine! So the fuck _what_? My job," she continues flatly, "is to save people; if I'm supposed to pass judgment on whether they deserve it first, consider this a blanket statement for everyone, forever: they deserve to be saved. Anything else?" 

"This would be how, yes." Alicia opens her mouth. "How to get you to Erica, I mean. You do realize this is a trap? Erica isn't stupid; she manipulated you and Micah two years ago and she's doing it right now. No matter what second deal Micah made, she wants you there, and Joelle and Jeremy were taken to makes sure we let you go."

She grimaces. "I just needed another minute."

"Yes, you're distracted, so you said," he says acidly, starting down the hall. "I need more weapons." 

Alicia jogs to catch up. "You're going? With me, I mean."

"Of course I’m going with you," he replies, and that's the end of conversation until they reach the door to the back stairwell. "Go to your room and get everything you can comfortably carry, then we'll...." Yes, that. "Kamal is searching the building and he's good at it."

She understands immediately. "Your balcony?"

"I've never attempted thirty feet with the expectation of fighting afterward," he admits, hoping she understands the unspoken 'or at all, at least voluntarily, and this would not be the time to try'.

She nods as she opens the door. "I got twenty feet of rope in my room. Project I was working on."

He wonders if it involves a net. "That should work."

* * *

Dean lowers the walky-talky and finishes with a voice so steady it's like it's not his own. "Dolores sent over an ambulance; they'll all be in the infirmary in a few minutes. Mark's going into surgery immediately; Valli's not sure if Drew's leg will need more than sutures, but he lost enough blood to need a transfusion. Phil's--" He didn't like the way Kamal skipped over detail other than Dolores was going to need to examine him. "--going, too. Kamal has Headquarters locked down and started a full sweep." He makes himself say the next part. "Mortuary's on its way. For Gary."

Amanda nods, closing her eyes, and he sees Joe cover his face. From the front seat is silence, but Dean can't imagine how Sarah feels right now; Mel's arm is the only visible sign, stretched across the seats toward her.

"Kamal's pretty sure that Kat and company took Jeremy and Joelle with them." Joelle's a local; threatening her may get them to open the gate, assuming Ichabod residents are stationed there. Or people with souls, who aren't down with watching anyone shoot a terrified seventeen year old girl. "Manuel and Teresa are sending teams to check the North and East gates."

"Cas is going to kill them," Mel says very softly, not without satisfaction. "Jeremy's got a scratch on him...."

"We need to--" He stops there, feeling helpless. If Cas hadn't gone to the infirmary...the part of Dean that knows none of them are in Cas's class doesn't stop the relief that he wasn't there when Kat and Kyle pulled their little coup. Especially when at least one of them isn't above going for your back.

"I told Kat everything," Sarah says tonelessly. "I thought it might help to know we were getting rid of Erica. She seemed interested," she adds. "I thought it was a good sign. I should have--"

"Don't," he says roughly, hoping she takes that in the spirit given. Scowling, he realizes he's rubbing his palm against his jeans and makes a fist, ignoring the flare of sharp pain from wrist to shoulder. "No way anyone could have seen this coming." 

"They must have planned this last night," Amanda says. "The rest I get, but Kyle--what the _fuck_ is he doing? It's not like can sell his soul for Alicia's affections!"

"No," Dean agrees. "But he may think he can buy them."

* * *

"Go," Alicia says once she's in the jeep and no longer hiding in the alley one street down from their Headquarters. "Where--"

"It was parked out of sight of Headquarters," he answers. "That was convenient." Going all the way to the garage and stealing a jeep--if there is another one available--would have taken far too much time and been rather awkward to explain.

When they reach the West Gate, Castiel sees patrol waiting for them and wonders uncomfortably if Dean left orders before he left not to allow him to leave. As Hans jogs toward them, the others spread out behind them in a loose semicircle, guns ready, while others stand ready with bags of salt. 

Coming to a stop, Castiel rolls down the window as Hans reaches them. "We just got word: the North Gate was compromised."

"Casualties?"

"Three," he answers grimly. "Five injured, not too bad; made them all come off the wall and took their walky-talkies. One came to report, but on foot; it took her a while and she took a good knock on the head. Said several people and two jeeps, but she's pretty shook up, couldn't tell us much more. Anthi's team is there, but they're concentrating on the injured right now, so that's pretty much all we know for sure. Guessing you're going out after them?"

"Yes," he says; Jeremy and Joelle are alive. Surely if they were among those at the North Gate, Anthi would have sent word.

"Good," he says with unsurprising ferocity, glancing back at something before nodding. "Okay, we're ready."

"Don't open the gate for anyone until we return," Castiel says. "I should be visually identified before my verbal confirmation to open the gate is accepted. If those don't match, shoot until you run out of bullets."

"Got it. Good hunting," he says, stepping back and signaling the gate. "Go slow so we can fix the lines the second you pass."

Castiel nods, keeping them in his rearview mirror, and isn't sure he breathes until they're outside and the gate is closed, all salt lines fixed.

Alicia stares at the road before them, naked trees like blackened limbs reaching for the sky.

"The shelter at the base of the hill, Station Zero," she says finally. "Carol's in bad shape, she can't stand in the snow forever waiting, and I don't see this going well if Erica thought she had to depend on everyone remembering directions in an area they don't know. This thing needed accessibility and flexible timing. Make it easy on us."

Castiel nods, putting the jeep in drive. "It's a very convenient trap."

* * *

"What do you _mean_ you can't find them?" Dean shouts, ignoring Joe and Amanda jumping. 

_"Dean, all I can tell you is that they aren't in the building."_ Kamal sounds harassed enough for Dean to believe him. _"I had every door covered, I swear, and all the windows are sealed, so how they got out without anyone seeing them, I don't know."_

He doesn't need to ask Kamal to check their room for a stripped bed and a suspicious trail of knotted sheets; he assumes if Cas didn't jump it outright, he and Alicia had the sense to find a goddamn rope. Probably. "I think I know."

_"Dean, uh...I think--"_

Dean closes his eyes and finishes it for him. "They went after Erica, I figured out that part! What about Matt and Jody?"

 _"They reported a few minutes ago,"_ Kamal reports grimly. _"They had no idea there was even a plan, much less that they were part of it."_

He tries to think; what went down in the infirmary interrupted the 'send for Matt and Jody', fine, but Christ, Cas and Alicia could have detoured to get their goddamn backup. It's on the tip of his tongue to tell Kamal to send Matt and Jody anyway to find them and just barely stops himself.

_"Matt wants to go--"_

"No." Erica's already got two hostages and two people to use them against; there's no fucking way adding two more on either side of that equation will improve anything, especially if Cas and Alicia don't know they're coming. "Tell Matt and Jody that's an order."

 _"Yes, sir,"_ Kamal says without a trace of irony. _"We finished searching, but only a few people were here and they were sleeping from second shift. Damiel's team went straight to bed when they got back. If shots had been fired anywhere but the basement...."_

"Yeah." Kat and Kyle weren't stupid about that part. "Keep me informed." Belatedly, he realizes that Sarah's starting to slow down, and looking at Amanda, sees her unbuckle her seatbelt. They're past the East Gate. "All right," he says, tucking the walky-talky in his jacket. "Let's get this show on the road."

* * *

The jeep by the shelter would have been confirmation enough, but it's not needed; the floodlights have been turned on to illuminate the snow-covered road, last used to help desperate people traveling up the hill to Ichabod, now for Erica to perform what appears to be a very anticipated show. It also has the benefit of making the dense brush on either side of the road nearly impossibly dark, which he assumes was a factor: very useful when hiding your minions from sight.

As they slow, Castiel scans the clearing: to the left of the road and up to their ankles in snow, Jeremy, Joelle, and--interestingly, Kyle--are under Micah's gun-enforced supervision, just short of the thick brush; Kat, expression unmistakably exultant, is standing halfway between them and Erica, with Carol in her wheelchair beside her; and Cathy is stopped just a few feet from Erica, standing in the middle of the road as if waiting for them. Which she is, of course.

As they come to a stop, Alicia leans forward, hand on the dashboard. "What the hell happened to Micah?"

Micah as he'd seen him in the lobby of Headquarters had been very different from as he'd appeared in the interrogation room, but there's no comparison to now; the usually pale face is flushed with more than just cold, and his coordination seems questionable, every movement too sharp, which is something of a concern when he's holding a firearm. Worse, it's clear he's trying to concentrate on what's going on here, blinking rapidly, but even as Castiel watches, his head jerks around to study empty space suspiciously-- _do you hear that?_

"It apparently started a few hours ago." Of all the things they need, Micah becoming an even more unstable quantity isn't one of them. "It seems to have become worse."

"Teresa said geas-telephone could go anywhere, but I didn't see 'acting crazy before a catalyst event' coming." Her lips tighten as Micah's gun traces an erratic parabola when his attention wanders again. "Especially armed."

Cutting the engine, Castiel takes a deep breath. "I need to apologize to Dean; this isn't even an attempt at a plan. At best, it's a series of actions that we may or may not be able to perform in any possible conjunction and no hope of order."

"I know," she answers, frowning out the windshield. "How many do you think are with her?"

"If she's not stupid, everyone she could get," he answers. "Which wouldn't actually be many if this isn't authorized: only those--"

"From Chitaqua," Alicia finishes for him, nodding. " "How long until Dean reaches--"

"By now, Kamal's reported he can't find us, and Dean is doubtless either almost at the Crossroad or waiting for Crowley now," he answers after doing some quick calculations. "The other option would be he followed us here, but in that case, he'd have arrived already."

She exchanges a glance with him and he nods; now is as good a time as any. "Okay, I keep Erica distracted until you signal, then exorcism on the fly, everyone goes home happy--"

"That choose to come with us," he says, and Alicia reluctantly nods.

"All right, let's get started." She reaches for the door, adding, "I wonder how long she would have kept them waiting just in case I showed up?"

Startled, he starts to correct her, but she's already out of the jeep. Getting out, he meets Alicia in front of the hood. The lights are doing an excellent job of both illuminating the area and far harder to search the darkness outside for her companions. 

They're halfway to Erica before Micah snaps into the present, focusing on them and then Alicia in surprise; apparently their very subtle approach down the road from Ichabod in sight of all and sundry escaped his (very questionable) attention. "What are you doing here?" he demands, gun almost but not quite wavering from his hostages as he jerks his gaze to Erica. "What the fuck's going on?"

Ignoring him, Erica smiles at them--or more specifically, at Alicia. "Look who joined the party."

"Get out of here!" Micah shouts, turning to wave his gun toward the road in an uncomfortable echo of Jeffrey in the clearing that day. Castiel isn't sure if he should be disappointed or not that Kyle--who is both physically closest and has proven to have no inhibitions regarding attacking someone's unprotected back--doesn't take advantage of the situation and try to disarm him. A quick check of Jeremy and Joelle shows her gripping Jeremy's hand tightly enough to keep him from trying despite the greater distance and almost inevitable failure; excellent, someone here is exercising good sense, at least.

Jeremy catches his eye, staring at him for a long moment before looking toward the brush roughly ten feet away; concentrating, Castiel just makes out a human shape. Catching Jeremy's gaze again, he nods, and Jeremy's gaze fixes on a different point behind Micah: two and three. So two of them are thinking: excellent.

"Sorry I'm late," Alicia says brightly as Jeremy indicates the fourth, fifth, and sixth in a direct line behind Kat and Carol. "Casualties, injuries, had to do some triage and stop some bleeding, you know how it goes." Alicia changed clothes in her room and made some attempt to wash her hands, but even Castiel can see the blood beneath her fingernails, a stripe below her chin, and decorating her wrist beneath the open cuff of her flannel.

Kyle shifts in place, looking sick; Kat seems deaf. Erica's grin widens. "I can help with that."

"I bet you can." Alicia stops short in the middle of the road and unexpectedly laughs. "You never took me to the Crossroads," she explains. "Gotta admit, I was a little curious what it was like. Less lights, more guns to the head, am I right?"

Erica cocks her head. "Why are you here? Micah was supposedly very certain he couldn't persuade you to do as you were told. That would be a first, but--"

"I got such a nice invitation, how could I refuse?" Alicia's gaze flickers to Jeremy and Joelle, then Cathy and Kat, before inexplicably lingering on Carol, who doesn't seem able to meet her eyes. "Come on, Erica, you hate him; of all the people to give a 'get-your-soul-back' card, he wouldn't be anyone's first choice."

"I received an offer I couldn't, in good conscience, refuse," Erica answers. "Fifty souls in two days? That's a record for a Crossroads demon; they couldn't pull that off when Pompey burned."

"The Lares send their regards to the Crossroad," Castiel interjects, but Alicia looks as shaken as he feels: fifty souls.

"Don't suppose you'd tell us how you pulled that off?" Alicia asks. "Or prove it? Just wondering."

"For the first, no, but the second...." She thinks. "Check out south of the wall. You may have to fight the Croats for what's left. I call those--"

"Those that said no," Alicia interrupts. "Ever heard of originality?"

"Ever heard why fix what isn't broken?"

"Listen to me," Micah says urgently.

"Shut up," Alicia says, never looking away from Erica. "So what's the deal now? All of them for me? Tell me you have something better than that."

"I'm not that stupid." She snaps her fingers, and Castiel feels a surge of nausea and vertigo before he's realizes he's frozen, Ruby's knife only inches from his hand. Eyes darting around the field, everyone in his line of sight is equally still. "Except you," she adds, and Micah tumbles to the ground, gun torn from his hand. "Now we'll talk. It's been a while, hasn't it, Stephanie?"

* * *

"Christ, what's he waiting for?" Amanda says, eyeing the mound of Crowley-bait in frustration. "We got demons for him to punish. Should be his favorite thing."

Dean starts to answer before going still at the flare of raw panic, closing his throat and cramping every muscle from sympathetic reaction: Cas.

"Dean?" Joe says worriedly, and from the way he says it, _distraction_ isn't gonna cut it.

"Something's wrong," he manages to grind out, understatement of the goddamn _century_. This is bullshit: there's no way to work out what the fuck's happening to him from here, but blind, mindless horror tells him it's not good, and worse, Cas isn't thinking, isn't even able to. _Stop. Control it._ Like that shit's going to help. "We need to--"

"Dean--"

"It's Cas!" he snaps; if he could move his legs, he'd already be running. "Something..."

"Dean, the best thing we can do now is get Crowley," Joe says ruthlessly. "We don't even know where Cas and Alicia _are_."

"They're at Zero." He tries to think reassuring thoughts toward Cas, but it feels a lot like someone saying they'll direct positive vibes or something; this is _bullshit_ , what's Erica doing to him? "Fuck this, we can't wait--"

"Dean," Amanda says in the calm voice of someone staring at their own death. "We got company."

Crowley raises an eyebrow, and Dean's never hated that smile more. "Dean Winchester," he purrs. "So nice to see you."

* * *

He's in a concrete box and can't get out, a box, a coffin, a body that won't move....

_Stop._

Castiel sucks in a breath--he can breathe, yes, he can feel his chest move, but nothing else will, can, does, he can't can't _can't_....for a second, he sees Crowley smiling genially at him and does the only thing he can do: he punches him.

Except that wasn't real: he can't move, can't breathe, he's in a box, a coffin, a dead and rotting body that won't.....

 _Control it_ , and he blinks slowly, forcing himself to focus. Blinking--he can still do that, excellent, and breathe, that, too--there's room to think again, and he examines what's holding him. He's not the only one; Jeremy and Joelle, Carol, Cathy, and Kyle, all show signs of similar immobility, though Alicia and--unfortunately, Micah--do not. He tests the pressure surrounding him--it's malleable, nothing at all like a box or a corpse--but there's very little give. He'd be interested in finding out how Erica did it--and where on earth she acquired the power, for that matter--but Micah's standing again, snow clinging to his jeans and looking considerably less sane, which is saying a great deal. 

"Steph, stop it!" Micah pleads desperately; his balance seems questionable, and there's a definite sway when he tries to take a step. More importantly, however, he seems to have lost his gun, which is perhaps the only thing that's improved the situation. "You're not part of this, I made sure of it! She can't change the deal now!"

"You remember the first time we got drunk?" Erica asks, smiling at Alicia like the woman she'd once been. "It was late, we came back from that shitty patrol, you stole two bottles of whiskey from Terry's cabin and got me drunk--"

"Didn't." Alicia's lips tighten. "Nice stroll down memory lane, but--"

"Maybe I didn't fight too hard," Erica agrees, taking a step toward Alicia, red skirt flaring around her bare legs. "Micah was doing extra time on sewer duty for pissing off Stan, so we had the whole night. Remember?"

Alicia nods jerkily. "Yeah, I--Erica, what--"

"We sat on the floor in my room and did shots until we couldn't see straight," Erica continues, taking another step. "Never been that drunk in my life: half way through, went to the bathroom to throw up, then came back for round two."

Despite herself, Alicia's lips curve in a reluctant smile. "Crawled back, you mean."

Erica laughs. "Like you were any better. Who was in there right after me for her turn at the toilet? And who got you a blanket so you could moan on the floor in comfort?"

Alicia ducks her head. "Erica--"

"I told you about--about those two days," Erica says, and Alicia's head jerks up. "Before they got me out. I never told anyone, not until you." She shakes her head ruefully. "Probably don't remember--"

"I remember," Alicia says softly.

"And I told you about my baby," Erica says, and alarmed, Castiel realizes Erica's less than ten feet from Alicia. "The names I picked--"

"Richard or Sophia," Alicia finishes for her. "Still not feeling Richard, gotta admit."

Erica rolls her eyes. "You have no taste." Alicia laughs, expression softening. "I told you how I lost my baby in that basement."

Alicia nods tightly.

"Then you told me," Erica continues more softly, "how you lost yours."

* * *

Dean will later remind himself that Crowley really didn't expect it, but he's gotta be honest; that's not any kind of excuse for not even ducking.

Rubbing his knuckles, Dean ignores Amanda and Joe torn between keeping their guns trained on Crowley and looking at him like he's an idiot. Not like it's not true; that was stupid, it may have fucked everything up, but watching Crowley getting up from the dirt--he's gonna enjoy that. 

"I take it," Crowley says, straightening to study Dean with open curiosity, "that this isn't a social call?"

"Amanda, Joe," he says, never looking away, "back to the gate."

"You've gotta be kidding," Amanda starts, and then there are two audible thumps, and Dean just stops himself from flinching. He's gonna pay for that.

"I assumed the problem was the audience," Crowley says, looking utterly comfortable in his stolen human skin in the middle of the remains of what was once a town. Cocking his head, he studies Dean, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "I've been curious about our replacement savior," he remarks. "Interesting."

"I don't have time for this."

"You have plenty of time," Crowley demurs, looking amused by something. "Could be forever, for all I know. Tick-tock, we're--"

"--on the clock," Dean finishes for him, words out before he even realizes what he's saying, familiar on his tongue. "Where did you--"

"I assume you're here to do the sensible thing and deal for your life," Crowley continues smoothly. "Out of here, back to Chitaqua--you left it long enough, but better late than never, I suppose. I'll even throw in your little militia; I'm feel generous."

"That's not why I'm here," Dean says, forcing himself to focus and is rewarded by a brief but definite look of utter shock on Crowley's face. "I'm here for you, actually. Professional courtesy."

"Professional…you must forgive me, is there something wrong with the water in Chitaqua?" Crowley asks sincerely. "First Cas, then you--"

"I'm offering you your life," Dean says patiently. "I won't make this offer again."

Crowley's smile doesn't change, but his gaze sharpens. "Lovely walls you have here."

"The demon blood thing, yeah, that too," Dean tells him. "But dude, making out with my boyfriend? Dick move."

This time, Crowley can't hide his surprise. "What?"

"Hindbrain," Dean says. "Talk about a rewarding way to get a revelation. Money, power, sex: we do crazy shit for all of it, but love? We'll destroy the world for it and never count the cost. I sold my soul for my brother; you think I wouldn't hunt you down for Cas? Obvious shit here, Crowley. Six year old test: you're failing it."

"Are you insane?" Crowley asks in genuine worry. "I didn't--you're upset about--"

"Jealousy." 

Crowley stills. 

"We'll destroy the world for love, but jealousy, that shit we'll take ourselves out just to prove we will, and take everyone else with us. What's a soul," he continues flatly, "compared to proving you should be loved best?"

Crowley's mouth quirks. "Oldest story in Creation, isn't it?"

"The first story," he agrees. "Cas was so sure it was what he was, but it was about _who_ ; Dean played favorites and didn't bother even trying to hide it." They didn't know--they _couldn't_ know--that was one competition no one sane wants to win, not the way Dean Winchester showed he cared. "They didn't just want to kill him. They wanted to _be_ him."

Christ, it would figure it took him this long to recognize what he saw when Erica looked at Cas, looked at him, and match that to what she told them. Her reasons, the other team leaders' reasons--they might have included Lucifer, but that script was all about Dean and what they weren't and wanted to be, so much that they sold their souls to try and get it.

"We didn't do anything but appear on request," Crowley says. "They came to us."

"And found out some things can't be bought." The Crossroads could make them faster, stronger, luckier--Christ, he should have figured it out then, Micah said it straight out--better shots, but they couldn't make them into fallen angels in a human body; they could be loyal, devoted, obedient, ruthless, but they couldn't be someone else.

"We did the best we could with what we had to work with, but we couldn't make them something they weren't already. They were desperate enough to take it, but living with second best seemed to have taken a toll on what was already a fairly precarious hold on sanity. Which I assume is why, for the first time in history, there was quite literally a line waiting for us at the Crossroads."

"At the point of a gun."

"I don't make the rules," Crowley answers. "I just enjoy the technicalities." He makes a moue of distaste. "I must admit, it does take some of the shine off when you can't tell the difference between them before and after the rack."

"How many took the deal?"

"I don't know," he answers, and if Dean's not crazy--which is a real possibility now--there's regret in his voice. "Dean's team leaders did know what they were doing when they made contract, at least. All names are locked until all their contracts are complete, for reasons you can guess."

"Dean was torturing demons," he says, too numb to feel anything, even horror. "They couldn't risk the one who made their contract might end up in Chitaqua." Or a too-early death of one of their own telling all their secrets under Dean's knife. "Not bad."

"Smart boy," Crowley says approvingly. "They were very good at making terms, though sadly shortsighted when it came to anything closer to home. I don't know what Dean was thinking with them, not keeping better control of his pets."

"Not like you're doing better." Finally, Crowley drops pretense, eyes narrowing. "Either you're slipping, you're scared of baby demons still bloody behind the ears from the rack, or you're giving Erica--and all her buddies--enough rope to hang themselves because you want to know who else signed the contract, and their owner is one of the names. Trying to get his attention? It's gotta be killing you to not know everything about your own contract."

Crowley doesn't smile. "I wondered," he says slowly, "who could so easily put Castiel on his knees again that even he didn't realize he was there."

"Experiments in contract bending are done for the day," Dean tells him. "Get your problem children and make an example of them before anyone else gets any bright ideas. Whoever owns them's not showing, and this shit's getting old."

"That's an excellent idea," Crowley agrees. "But not until she's done. Erica was brilliant--if somewhat crude in her methods--when she was still human, and I want to see if she can pull this off. Let's find out, shall we?"

* * *

When Alicia arrived at Chitaqua, she gave Dean a tattered brown envelope with three pieces of identification: a driver's license, a birth certificate, and a social security card. Chuck and Castiel traced the number to Texas and two separate cases: one recent, coded TP-40, the earlier one, TP-90.

As he discovered during their research, Medicaid is divided into many dozens of programs, each assigned a program code (also referred to as Type Program or TP) and arranged in a baffling but rigid hierarchy. Those codes differentiate between different Medicaid programs, each with different eligibility requirements for approval. Medicaid, type program 90 was one of four codes associated with children in foster care.

Five years before Alicia came to Chitaqua, the archived TP-90 Medicaid case for Bethany Anne Smith--denied unable to locate--was imported into the new TIERS system by a state employee associated with Data Integrity, a unit with full read-write access to the entire massive HHSC database. Two weeks later, a woman using that name filed a petition for a change of name in Dallas, Texas; when it was approved, Alicia Matthews applied for a driver's license in Corpus Christi with a listed address of a newly rented efficiency apartment. 

Over the next three months, Alicia Matthews completed a GED, enrolled in the local community college, used something called CLEP and AP to gain credit for twenty-four hours of classwork, and took six online classes during two summer sessions (Philosophy 101, Introduction to Speech, Introduction to Psychology, French III, and World Literature I and II). During the fall semester, she completed twenty hours more, received an associate degree in nursing with a 4.0 GPA, was admitted to Phi Theta Kappa (whatever that is), and gained certification as an LVN.

(At the time, Castiel was impressed with her ability to create such excellent forgeries; now, knowing Alicia better, he suspects the only thing she needed to forge was the name she used to do it.)

A month later after graduation, Alicia became a self-employed home health care worker that specialized in the care of the elderly, and for over three years, she regularly paid income tax for non-existent income gained from not actual employment with a variety of actual elderly residents--all dead well before they acquired her services--on the Gulf coast.

(Chuck said, incredulous: "She paid taxes on her fake income early, itemized everything, and didn't even use an accountant? Who _does that_?"

Now Castiel knows: someone who needed not only an identity, but a thorough paper trail should anyone investigate it.)

Alicia had a library card for two local libraries with a regular checkout history and no fines and an active Amazon account with a purchase history almost entirely ebooks (Regency and paranormal romance novels (for irony is apparently not dead), a massive collection of mysteries (Agatha Christie was a favorite), a variety of self-help books, and every book on the New York Times bestseller list), a variety of PC games, Android apps for a T-Mobile phone with a Texas prefix, H&R Block tax software, and roughly six thousand mp3s in a variety of genres (including a large selection of French pop).

She had one credit card and one debit card associated with a small local credit union with an excellent online user interface, and there were regular weekly deposits that matched her self-employment records and IRS tax returns showing an eight and a half percent increase every year up to the last. All bills were auto-deducted--rent, utilities, cell phone, and interestingly, a monthly tithe of one-tenth of her net income to the local Catholic Church and another tenth split between three women's shelters--and she never missed a payment or overdrew her account. Her credit rating was excellent, her practice seemed to be increasing (all elderly, but more importantly, all several years beyond simply dead), she had a 401K that received one-tenth of her gross income, and a self-managed stock portfolio that Castiel--as a former stockbroker--was very aware was doing incredibly, one might say even eerily, well.

Eleven months before Alicia arrived at Chitaqua, she was approved for a second Medicaid case, coded TP-40. This was followed by a twenty-percent increase in her weekly deposit, one that was repeated weekly in slowly increasing amounts for the next seven months.

Nine months before Alicia arrived at Chitaqua, she applied for a mortgage and her weekly deposit doubled; one month later, she was pre-approved for a mortgage on a two bedroom, two bathroom property with a view of the bay, and she renewed the lease on her apartment for only six months. That was when other responsibilities interfered with further research; Dean didn't care, training was about to begin, and Castiel set it aside and never thought of it again, or of that second, later case and its associated TP code.

Not until today.

Alicia said she was on leave from work; her supervisor saw her coming from a check-up and told her--no, _warned her_ about the new alarm. The first time she heard the alarm, she was at the state hospital in the maternity ward; an hour earlier, she watched a woman put Croatoan in the last newborn baby's eyes.

In Corpus Christi, Texas, eleven months before she came to Chitaqua, one month before the first change in her income, two months before she applied for a mortgage, and three before she was approved and renewed her lease for six months instead of a year as she had every year before, Alicia turned in an online application for Medicaid, and after a telephone interview using her Texas cell phone and verification sent by fax, she was approved. 

The code was TP-40: Medicaid for pregnant women.

* * *

Alicia's lips part, but no sound emerges.

"You still don't remember what you told me that night?" Erica asks in elaborately manufactured surprise. "Let me refresh your memory. You were still five weeks off, Micah was out of state for a big case, and you had a plan. You packed your bags, cut your hair, and stopped at the store on your way out of town to grab a few things for the road trip to your new home." Erica cocks her head. "You ever wonder what would have happened if you hadn't stopped for snacks? Might have made it to the next town before you went into labor."

After a long moment, Alicia shakes herself. "Fuck you."

"You ever think of him at all?" Erica asks solicitously. "Your dead son, I mean."

"Every day." She wets her lips. "You done yet?"

"That night, I told you how my baby died," Erica says, now close enough to Alicia to touch. "But you--you lied to me about yours. You said he died of Croat at that hospital."

Alicia stiffens. "What? You told me--"

"I told you that I knew what you'd done and showed you the warrant for your arrest," Erica answers. "I never said you were the one that told me about it."

* * *

Dean remembers: Alicia said that ten babies were born that day. But when she broke the lock on the nursery, there were only nine. "Christ."

"Shh," Crowley chides him, watching Erica with a pleased smile. "It's just getting interesting."

* * *

Dean told him that nine newborn children were in that nursery, but Alicia said she killed ten.

"Shut up!" Micah shouts, starting toward Alicia, expression pleading. "Steph, listen to me--"

Micah freezes as a throwing knife slides over Alicia's palm, tip pressed between her thumb and middle finger. "My range with this is twenty-six feet and I don't miss."

Micah shows unexpected wisdom and stays put. "I never would have told her, I swear, but she made me--"

"Please," Erica interrupts. "He volunteered the information of his own free will. Come on, Steph, why are you surprised he betrayed you in this, too? Is there any way that he hasn't?"

"You were going to kill her!" Micah says desperately. "Steph," he breathes, "baby, she said she'd kill you if you didn't say yes. I was trying to protect you!"

"He told me all about coming home to an empty house, a bloody nursery, and what he found buried in the west corner of the yard," Erica continues. "Did you see him and your parents on the news, asking for your safe return? For you were the victim of postpartum psychosis, you were a danger to yourself and others, but you knew not what you did. They weren't sure exactly what you did, either, or at least, what you used. Blunt force trauma--"

"Croat was just a story," Alicia says tonelessly. "Epidemic just a word: I didn't know shit. What it looked like, how it was spread, that it was one hundred percent communicable, how long it took to manifest...." Her voice breaks. "And how hard they are to kill."

Those missing hours: that's what she was doing.

"I didn't know--" Micah breaks off, focusing on Alicia again. "I'm sorry, I didn't--for fuck's sake, how was I supposed to know what happened? When I saw it--"

"Him," Alicia interrupts. "His name is--was Max."

"Max," he says eagerly, nodding. "I didn't know, Steph, not about Croat or--or any of it. The hospital burned down, they said--"

"You didn't know then," Erica says generously. "But when you got to Chitaqua, you did. She told you what really happened, and remind me, what happened then?"

"I told her if anyone found out--"

"You'd make sure no one would," Erica says. "Provided you got to keep her, of course. Sound familiar, Steph?"

"I was protecting her!" Micah exclaims. "You think she'd be okay alone in that camp? Who the fuck knows would have happened if I hadn't--she was naïve, I had to do something--"

"Bullshit; you didn't fuck her up enough not to know what blackmail looked like," Erica retorts, and for a moment, Castiel glimpses a very human anger.

"You--" Micah starts.

"If I'd known before the contract...." Erica says softly, eyes black. "But I didn't, because she was protecting you. From me. And after, I couldn't touch him." She looks at Alicia. "And he sold you out. Told me every detail so I could get your yes."

"You still used it," Alicia whispers.

"Twelve days later," Erica answers. "When I ran out of time."

"But giving him _carte blanche_ to beat me for almost two weeks for my yes, that was...." Erica cocks her head, looking amused, and slowly, Alicia turns to look at Micah. "Before the contract--what does that mean, that after, you couldn't touch him?"

"I made two mistakes when I took him to the Crossroad," Erica says. "I gave him the script before we went, and I forgot he was a lawyer."

* * *

Micah said: _Erica wasn't big on chatting, and if I didn't follow the script, she'd kill me. Literally, right there, she would have shot me in the head._

Dean doesn't have Erica's excuse; he knew perfectly well he was talking to a lawyer and believed him anyway.

* * *

"What was your price?"

"She told me I had to go or she'd kill me. I--" He yelps at a flash of metal, stumbling backward and sprawling into a heavy drift, just missing the splintered remains of a tree. Following his gaze, Castiel sees the thin throwing knife that landed between his feet.

"The next one goes in your left thigh, one inch above the knee," Alicia says, palming the a second knife. "Then your right. Then, who knows: could be anywhere. What was your price, Micah?"

"I was trying to protect you," Micah pleads. "From _her_."

"He followed the script," Erica says. "Right up until the end. Next thing I knew, he threw in a couple more. Once negotiations started, I couldn't do a thing until they were done. And after that...."

"What were his terms?"

"You were right; he really was a good lawyer," Erica answers. "Everything that didn't straight up violate free will, he got; none of us could so much as touch him. Including me."

"She's lying!" Micah struggles in the snow for purchase before finally getting to his feet and starting toward her, but the sight of Alicia's knife stops him short. "That's not what I--Steph, I love you. I didn't want to lose you, and she--it was the only way I could keep you from her! She set me up! She was going to kill you if I didn't get you to say yes!"

Erica's been waiting for this for a long time, he suspects; there's almost a rote quality, as if even before her death, she imagined this conversation, every revelation, every defense, every counter; now, she finally gets to use it. 

"I wasn't going to kill you," Erica says, and once again, that flash of someone else, Erica as she was then. If he ever doubted Dean's certainty regarding Erica's feelings for Alicia then, he wouldn't now. "I couldn't--I wouldn't have killed you no matter how you answered. My first mistake wasn't taking Micah to the Crossroads; it was asking you to go to the cabin in the first place. I knew it was too soon, that you--that you weren't ready. I regretted it from the moment I asked until the day I died, you have to believe me."

"She's a liar and would say anything to get you!" Micah snarls. "For fuck's sake, Steph, she tried to kill you two days ago!"

Alicia doesn't look away from Erica. "I was actually there for that," she says. "Well?"

"I didn't expect--" She hesitates. "Until I saw you, I didn't know that---that I...."

"What?"

"When I first saw you outside the walls, I was so angry--I didn't understand what was happening to me." Reaching out, she cups Alicia's face. "Now I do."

"Understand what?"

"I didn't leave everything on the rack after all," Erica says quietly. "I kept you."

For an endless moment, there's nothing but silence. 

"I'll let them go," Erica says, nodding toward Carol, Cathy, and Kat. "If they want to deal, they'll have to work for it, and it won't be with me or mine. Jeremy and the girl, too: in fact, everything that happened today, I'll undo it all. It'll be like it didn't happen."

"Like I give that much of a shit about them," she answers, but the flicker of her gaze over them gives lie the words. "What else do you have?"

"Andrea."

Alicia stiffens. "What?"

"Before you passed out from whiskey overkill, you gave me a name: Andrea," Erica answers. "I told you I'd find her. I know where she is."

* * *

Everyone has a price.

Dean hits the ground so hard he bites his tongue, blinking vaguely at the empty air. "What--"

"Hush," Crowley says with a glittering smile, eyes on Erica as a raised hand locks Dean against the ground. "I want to see if she can do it."

* * *

Alicia meets Erica's eyes. "Where?"

"She's safe and sound in a Luciferite compound, destroying the world one Croat infection at a time. And I know something else: five months ago, she had a baby. For Lucifer's greater glory, you believe that bullshit?"

Alicia sucks in a breath.

"I know the entire compound to the last sub-basement, the passcodes, but what I can't do is pass the salt lines or the warding; only a human can do that and I can teach you how to break them. We'll take them all out, every fucking one of them. She'll be last, though; she's yours. You want her dead," Erica adds. "But not as much as you want her to hurt, right? We can do that; I can teach you--Steph, I can teach you so much, you have no idea, and that's just on earth. Once she's dead...." Erica grins. "You can have her kid."

Alicia flinches, and Erica shakes her head. "I don't mean kill him. What kind of life would he have with a mother like that? She took yours, so it's only fair you have hers."

"And abandon him in ten years when I go to Hell?"

"Of course not," Erica breathes. "Once you're mine, I can wait. The length of your natural life, that's _nothing_ , not if I have you for all of it and forever after. I'll keep you both safe, Alicia; you'll never want for a single thing, and I can be anything you want." Her voice softens. "Or anyone. Don't like this meatsuit? You can pick the next one."

"No!" Micah shouts. 

Erica gestures, and Micah's slammed back into the ground. "When everyone finds out you were at the cabin--and we both know that's one secret Dean isn't going to keep any longer than he has to--they'll all know who you really are. _You_ know who you are, Steph--and so do I."

"You're mine," Micah says unexpectedly, sitting up, and Alicia turns around just as the safety clicks off his gun, snow still clinging to the barrel. "She can't have you."

The sound of a gunshot echoes through the clearing, and Alicia stumbles backward into Erica's arms, and Castiel catches a glint of metal just as Micah collapses back onto the ground with a grunt. Much like outside Ichabod's walls, with the break in Erica's concentration, so does her control: everyone drops to the snow

Including Castiel: he catches himself on one hand, shattering relief washing through him even as vertigo sets the world in a violently nauseating spin. Reaching back, he pauses to orient himself before closing his hand on the butt of his other gun.

"No," he hears Erica saying, and blinking, the clearing comes into something like focus as Erica lowers Alicia to the road. "No, not like this. Not like this, Steph." Blinking again, he just glimpses the dark stain spreading across Alicia's shirt under Erica's hand. "You can't do this, not yet."

Alicia's fingers dig into the snow helplessly. "Can't do--much--about bullets."

"I can." Black film spills across her eyes. "I can fix this; same terms and your life, here and now. Say yes."

Raising her hand, Alicia feels over her chest, expression more bewildered than anything. "It. It should. Hurt more." Castiel can see blood on her lips. "Weird."

"Steph," Erica says urgently. "Say yes."

Grimacing, she licks her lips, leaving traces of blood as she looks up at Erica. "Alicia."

"What?"

"It's Alicia. And the answer. Is." The blue eyes open, and her left hand comes up, thin blade slicing across Erica's face. With a shout, she jerks back, and Alicia draws up her legs for a two footed kick that sends Erica sprawling feet away with the sound of shattered ribs. " _No._ "

Sudden movement from the other side of the field catches his attention; forcing himself to focus, he sees that Erica's compatriots have fully emerged from the brush and far, far too close to Jeremy and Joelle. Swallowing, Castiel tightens his hold on his gun; he can't stand, but he's fairly certain he can still shoot.

Looking dazed, Jeremy pushes himself up, and Castiel sees him exchange a look with Joelle; as he assists her to her knees, she reaches up as if to check her scarf, smoothing it back behind her ear. All at once, she jerks something free that gleams dully, and as the closest demon turns at the motion, she lunges forward, burying it in the groin of the demon and slashes down savagely.

The high, horrified scream echoes through the clearing as he pitches forward, and Joelle drops flat for Jeremy to swivel around for a hard kick to the head that sends the demon sprawling into its nearest companion with what is most likely a cracked skull. Which doubtless he hasn't noticed yet or will for some time; demons in male bodies still react like any being in a male body when effectively castrated. 

Leaping to their feet, they run for the jeep, and with the attention of four demons on them both, Castiel stops caring about vertigo.

Bracing a hand against the ground, he narrows his focus and four precise shots send them to the ground, screaming; the sciatic nerve is preferable, of course, but from the sound of their screams, any nerve center will do quite well. 

"Thank you," he says softly, shaking off the remaining dizziness as he climbs to his feet; the others immediately freeze in place. "I've waited two and a half years for that."

Checking to assure Jeremy and Joelle are clear, he focuses on Erica and takes aim; he loaded this gun just for her. "You heard her answer," he says. "Now, as is traditional, get you gone. Before I rip out your throat."

Frozen, Erica doesn't respond at first, but as Castiel advances, she scrambles to her feet, absently wiping the blood from her face as she backs away, eyes searching the clearing blindly. Ignoring her, he kneels by Alicia, and she tries to smile, then turns her head, spitting out a mouthful of blood. "So--Cas, look. I--"

"Conserve your strength," he whispers, trying to breathe through the tightness in his chest. "It might not be as bad as it seems." It's as bad, he knows on a single glance. From the corner of his eye, he detects motion, and sees Carol jogging awkwardly on two working legs, but her goal is clear when she stumbles to her knees by Micah, and he dismisses her for the moment. 

"Shut. Up." She grimaces again. "I tried to survive. Promise. Just. Not like that."

Abruptly, Joelle drops on Alicia's other side, reaching for the end of her scarf. Before he can react, it neatly unravels with a single pull, a second stiletto falling into her waiting hand from among the tightly wound braids.

"Hold still," she commands with exactly Dolores' inflection of medical supremacy, and Alicia responds unthinkingly. Reaching for Alicia's shirt, she bites her lip, confirming everything he already knew. "Give me a minute," she whispers, cutting the scarf in half and making a pad of one part before pressing it on the welling blood. "Just breathe, slow, while I check you out. Dolores taught me how to do a field assessment, so don't forget to tell her I was amazing, okay?"

Alicia smiles faintly and nods. "Prodigy."

Jeremy crouches beside him, a gun from the jeep in one hand, dirty face nearly grey with fear and fatigue, the dried tracks of tears leaving pale lines in the dirt. "I should have been ready," he says hoarsely. "I'm sorry--"

"You were perfect," he says roughly, unable to stop himself from half turning and pulling Jeremy into his arms. Tightening his hold, he's not sure which of them is shaking harder. "You remained calm, you did what was required without taking foolish risks, and most importantly, you survived, and your partner survived as well; that was exactly what you were supposed to do." When Jeremy looks at him uncertainly, he cups his face firmly, feeling the first faint growth of adolescent stubble. "I'm so proud of you."

Jeremy smiles weakly, wiping his eyes, and Castiel glimpses an edge of darkening plum on his forehead and a greater darkness on his left cheekbone reminiscent of the barrel of a gun. Ghosting a finger just over it, he takes a very careful breath. 

"Who did this?" Jeremy licks his lips, and the memory of shock and betrayal on his face narrows it down considerably. "Kat or Kyle?"

"Kat," he whispers. "I--I wasn't moving fast enough. Joelle tried to get between us," he adds, voice strengthening, and Castiel studies Joelle as she works, marking the greater fullness of her left cheek--a backhand, if he's not mistaken--and a suspicious puffiness on the left side of her lower lip.

"Do either of you have any other injuries?" he asks; they seemed to have no trouble running, but a hunter runs until they're deprived of legs (and sometimes even then), so that means nothing.

"We're fine," Jeremy assures him, eyes flickering over the too-quiet glade, broken only by Carol's stifled sobbing over Micah's immobile form. Castiel focuses on her for a long, thoughtful moment, her fragile throat, her temple, her chest, her belly: his left hand--stained with Alicia's blood--tightens around his gun, thumb pressed against the safety.

"Cas? You okay?"

Tearing his gaze away, he looks at the young, worried face, and deliberately removes his thumb from the safety. "Just distracted for a moment," he says reassuringly, and Jeremy nods, relaxing. "Joelle, are you finished?"

She looks up as she presses the second pad of her scarf and nods in resignation. "Just about." Despite everything--despite _seeing the wound_ \--he somehow still hoped, and losing that is like someone ripped off a limb.

It's an effort to let Jeremy go, but needs must. "Both of you, go to our jeep and lock yourself inside--" 

"No," Jeremy says flatly, wiping his eyes as Joelle places the second pad, the first already soaked through. "Someone's gotta watch your back, and that's us."

"That is exactly what I need you to do," he answers. "Secure the jeep and keep watch for me. Alicia and I are well within your range." He holds Jeremy's eyes, understanding far better why Dean wished him to remain at Headquarters; it's not rational, no, there's nothing here that can threaten them now before he can kill it, but after the last few hours, any risk is too much to bear. He'd do anything to have them both safe in Headquarters under Kamal's eye. In a well-fortified room with all the weapons available and perhaps a very large, very hungry dragon guarding the door; the Appalachians or Rockies should have at least one colony established by now and probably two. 

"Watch the road from Ichabod as well," he adds in a moment of inspiration. "And inform me if anyone else arrives."

Joelle opens her mouth to argue. "That is an order," he tells her, not at all surprised; no hunter is happy when forced to leave combat before all the enemy are dead. "I need someone I trust to watch my back, and you are the only ones I can trust to do so. Go." Then, belatedly, "Very well done with the demon. Your mother will be very pleased."

Her mouth quirks in suppressed pleasure in a job well done. "Thanks." She waits for him to replace her hand on the makeshift bandage with his own, then gets up, and Jeremy automatically moves to cover her retreat. When they're safely locked inside the jeep, he turns his full attention to Alicia. Joelle's efforts slowed the bleeding considerably, but only that.

"Conserve your strength," he says again when Alicia's lips part. Even if she could survive long enough to get back to Ichabod and the infirmary--and that's doubtful--there's nothing they can do for her. He doubts a fully staffed operating room with several experienced surgeons appearing around them could do much more.

"It wasn't. Deathbed," she whispers, blood bubbling up between her lips. "Thought about it. On the way here. I was going to survive. And prove it. That I was sorry."

"You didn't _need_ to prove it!" Taking the frighteningly cold hand in his own, he laces their fingers together. "You didn't need to do anything but be yourself. Did you think I wouldn't forgive you? How could you be so stupid? It would have just been a matter of time; I was halfway there already."

She laughs, a mistake; he turns her head so she can spit out more blood, but that much exertion has stolen more of her time. "Liar," she whispers, barely more than a movement of her lips. "But thanks." She pauses for a horrible, wet sound as she tries to breathe. "Just--don't hate me forever, okay?"

Blinking back the blurring of his eyes, he shakes his head. "I could never hate you."

She grimaces, fingers curling around his trustingly. "Maximus. My son." She stops for a shallow breath. "I don't regret him. Those hours. With him. Best of my whole life. He was worth it."

"Maximus," he says softly, and she tries to smile. "Best and Greatest. If you're any indication, he must have been an exceedingly attractive child."

"Winston Churchill," she whispers, love rippling through her voice. "He was perfect."

"Alicia?" She tries to smile, but the blue eyes are glazing, lids heavy, and all at once, a strange quiet descends, a soft, warm breeze sliding over his skin, chasing away the freezing cold. Even Alicia seems to feel it, tight mouth softening, relaxing as it eases between her and her pain. "Not yet," he says, fighting the urge to shake her. "I never taught you to use a sword, and I should have. I--I couldn’t bear to touch one, but that's not an excuse. I could do it now--I will--but not...not if you aren't here."

He wants to clutch her closer, as if by sheer will he can hold off the inevitable; this is the fate of all those born mortal, and he doesn't care. Stroking her hair back with a shaking hand, he scrubs a hand across his face and calms himself, for her sake if not his own. 

"Alicia," he whispers, stroking her cheek and waiting for her to look at him. "Listen to me. Be not afraid, for my Father's fields are vast, and a place has been prepared for you since the moment of your birth." His voice cracks on the last word, eyes blurring again, and he wipes them angrily. "You don't remember now, you can't, but you will. Your work here is done; go there so you can rest. The Host lays claim to every soul on earth without exception, and we will not be denied our right to even one. Your soul is safe, I promise you."

Weakly, her fingers brush his. "Cas, it's okay. I know. Where I'm going."

"You know _nothing_ ," he says fiercely. "We are the last of the Host on all Creation and this is our will. The path is long and not well-lit, but you will follow it because we order it; you will walk it to the end. Don't be afraid, for it will lead you home."

The air smells of fresh, clean earth and spring, fields newly sown, dew-heavy under the warm sun. "Or perhaps you will have guidance after all." 

Her expression changes, eyes widening as they fix on something beyond him. "What," she whispers, fingers squeezing his with unexpected strength. "Cas. The girl...."

"With her sheep." Alicia nods incredulously. He wonders if he's imagining the brush of wool against his back as Alicia's fading gaze, fixed above his shoulder, travels to rest on the empty air beside her. "Her name is Amieyl. My first student, as it were."

Alicia's lips part in a faint smile. "Not. Just. A story."

"She was a shepherdess," he whispers, barely able to see through the tears. "Then she became a hunter, like you. She's here to take you--to count sheep, which makes sense, now that I think about it."

Alicia's eyes fall closed; her next words are barely a breath. "They aren't sheep."

"No, they aren't," he agrees, lowering his forehead to hers and closing his eyes; the next words squeeze themselves out from a throat closed over. He squeezes her hand one last time: it's the fate of all those born mortal to let go as well. What he hasn't learned yet is how to bear it. "Stand up and go with Amieyl now," he whispers brokenly. "And be at peace."

Faintly, he feels the squeeze of her fingers, or perhaps he imagined it; it goes limp and the last, shuddering breath isn't followed by another. 

"Take care of her," he whispers into the fading warmth. "And give her peace."

A touch that feels like fingers brushes against his neck as he begins to cry.

* * *

There's a sense of growing inevitability, like something written long ago, that was, is, and will always be.

Dean watches as Carol turns to look at Erica. "Bring him back," she begs. "I'll do anything else you want, just--"

"You have nothing else I want," Erica interrupts, her gaze landing on Micah's body, and Dean shivers at the glimpse of something so far beyond hatred he's not sure what to call it. "Would you like me to give him your regards?"

"What?" Carol struggles up on her feet. "I fulfilled the deal! Thirty souls or Alicia--!"

"Alicia is dead, and Cathy's still uncontracted," Erica says indifferently. "At Micah death, the contract was incomplete at twenty-nine; I dissolve it without prejudice. All the individual contracts stand." 

"Well done," Crowley says softly, satisfaction rippling through his voice. "You must admit, Dean, she does get the job done."

You send Erica when you want to win and you don't care how. "Yeah," he agrees. "She does."

Understanding belatedly dawns across Carol's face. "You set me up!"

The gleaming black eyes rest on Carol in outright malice. "Of course I did," she answers. "Did you think I was here to _help_?" Turning away, she adds, "I'll see you soon."

"You can't--" Carol starts angrily, and Erica gestures carelessly, throwing her into Micah's body. Then her step slows, and following her gaze, Dean sees Kyle, crying helplessly a few feet away.

"You can, actually, stop this now," Crowley says, giving him a curious look, like maybe Dean didn't notice he wasn't restrained anymore. "Just walk out, bring them to heel with the wonder of being Dean Winchester. Your predecessor got them to sell their souls for him and didn't even have to try. Surely you can--" He pauses for a pregnant moment. "You don't want to."

Cas hasn't moved, still bent over Alicia's body, but Dean can feel his shoulders shaking, the tearing pain in his chest from every sobbing breath like it's happening to him. Twenty feet away, Kyle wipes his eyes and looks up, and there's an almost audible click when he meets Erica's gaze that seems to ripple through the clearing.

"I see what you mean," Crowley remarks as Kyle starts toward her. "Humans really will do anything for love."

Dean thinks of Andy and Gary, of Mark and Phil and Drew, Haruhi and Rosario; of whoever died at the North Gate and whoever's in the infirmary now. "That's not love."

"I almost want to keep her, just to see what she's capable of in a century or two." Dean almost laughs at the sincerity in Crowley's voice. "Everyone has a price, Dean; you can't judge them for what you did yourself once upon a time."

"I can judge them for anything I want." Erica tips her head back triumphantly, and Kyle squeezes his eyes shut and nods blindly; that would be it, then.

He can feel Crowley looking at him. "You realize what they've bought--"

"I know exactly what they bought," he interrupts. "They should get what they paid for."

Crowley smiles, watching Kyle step forward for a luxuriant kiss that makes him shudder. "The best part of any contract," he adds softly as Cathy approaches Erica, "is when they realize it really was exactly what they asked for. I do so enjoy that." He gives Dean a sideways glance and smiles. "And so do you."

Crowley cocks his head as if he's listening for something, and as Cathy steps back, hand reaching for her mouth, he nods in satisfaction. "She's done. Go gather up them up now. This has been a very long day for all of them." His gaze rests on Erica and her buddies in anticipation. "Their day, however, isn't quite over, I think."

Cas straightens, shoulders slumped despairingly; it hurts just to look at him. Starts with birth, ends with death: a lifetime lived between, and the memory you leave behind. Starting toward them, he adds, "They think you're weak. So does their master."

"I do realize that," Crowley tells him. "I plan to enjoy correcting that very much."

And that reminds him. "You got a traitor."

He gets ten feet when Crowley says, in a pretty impressive attempt at boredom. "Who?"

"Jeffrey's got a new master. Take care of it. And Crowley?" He waits for Crowley to look at him, bored. "Touch Cas again, you'll find out exactly what can be done on earth as it is in the Pit." He holds Crowley's eyes. "I invented all of it."

The flicker of raw fear's almost enough for a down payment; he's got time to collect the rest. Turning, he starts toward Cas.

* * *

Castiel is unpleasantly startled by the appearance of Kyle, who drops down on the other side of Alicia's body. "Why isn't she... Alicia, wake up!"

Wiping his eyes, he looks from Kyle to Erica, watching from only a few feet away. "You didn't…."

Alicia's body convulses, arching from the ground with a gasp, eyes opening wide and staring up at the sky. Kyle's frantic expression melts into incredulous joy, but before his grasping hands reach her, Castiel sends him sprawling on the asphalt.

"What the hell--"

"Shut up." The second convulsion is more violent, and dragging off his coat, he folds it quickly and shoves it beneath her head to give it some protection from the road, then concentrates and feels something fall into place. His vision doubles; with every convulsion, the temporal history of Alicia's body reverses itself second by second, not healing but _undoing_ : lungs and heart undamaged, bones unbroken, chest unbreached, while Alicia relives her own moment of death and every second of dying until the moment of impact. As she comes to a shuddering rest, the intact bullet falls into the snow, unmarked, as if it had never been shot. The tear in her shirt remains, blood still caking the fabric as well as her unmarked skin, and the pallor of blood loss is unchanged, but for all intents and purposes, it's as if it never happened.

Belatedly, Castiel suppresses the sense of time displacement again, but he can already feel the beginnings of what will be a truly annoying headache very soon. As she starts to stir, he checks her pulse as her chest rises and falls frantically, drawing in great gulps of air as if she's forgotten how to breathe and is only just now remembering how. 

Bewildered, she scrabbles at the linen padding and clumsily knocking it aside. "What--"

"Breathe," he tells he firmly, easing her away from Kyle's belated reach and helping her sit up, bracing her against his chest when she begins to sag and checking the back of her head for any injury from the road. He wants to pick her up, carry her to the jeep, and drive back to Ichabod. There, he can take her to Headquarters, place her in a defensible room with Jeremy and Joelle (he'll ask Dean how to fortify it), and watch her breathe until he believes she won't stop again. However, the undeniable fact that his legs won't hold him at this moment is an inhibiting factor. "Just remain calm."

Looking over her head, he sees Erica raise a hand, stopping her other followers in their less than stealthy advance. The black-slick eyes shift from Alicia to him, and he just catches a glimpse of overwhelming relief before she looks away.

"I don't…" He turns his attention back to Alicia as she pats weakly at the tear in her shirt, looking down as she feels around the bloody edges, fingers sliding incredulously over the whole skin in dawning horror. "I said no, Cas. I said--"

"You did," he whispers against her hair. "I knew you would."

"Hey." 

Startled, Castiel turns to see Dean jogging toward them and feels a burst of relief so sharp it's painful. "Dean." 

Crouching beside him, Dean's hand comes to rest on his shoulder, squeezing. "Won't be long now," he says enigmatically, then reaches for Alicia's chin with his other hand. "You okay? Name, location, and last answer I'll tell you; end of the world. Cas won't ask, but it makes him feel better if you say it all, no idea why."

"Yeah, I…." She takes a deep breath, hand trembling against her chest, pulling back her fingers to stare at the blood before realizing that Dean's waiting. "Alicia, Ichabod, end of the world."

"That's who you are," he tells her, catching her bloody hand and squeezing it. "Nothing's changed. You understand me?"

"No. What…." She looks at their hands for a long moment, then turns her head to look at Kyle, and he can see the moment she understands, a new wave of horror washing over her. "Oh God."

"Alicia," he breathes like a prayer, smiling at her as he wipes his eyes. "Hey, baby, how you feeling?"

Castiel feels her begin to shake. "What did you do?"

"It's okay," Kyle tells her eagerly, reaching for her free hand and somehow missing her flinch. "It was worth it, I promise. I’m sorry about--I'm nothing like him, Alicia, I'd never hurt you. I tried to protect you, but--"

"Stop it." Alicia's lips move soundlessly, shrinking more with every word, like each one is leaving a bruise that won't ever heal. "Stop talking--"

"I love you," Kyle says urgently, the hectic smile beginning to fade and uncertainty taking its place, the beginnings of bewilderment. "I'd do anything for you."

Alicia stares at him before her eyes travel over the road, passing over Carol by Micah's body, to Kat and Cathy, and finally to Erica.

"You know what they say," Erica says. "If at first you don’t succeed, try, try aga--"

Alicia jerks her hand free of Kyle's, a knife appearing between her fingers for a blurred second before it slashes the air and lodges in Erica's chest, knocking her a few stumbling steps. Before Castiel realizes what she means to do, her hand snaps to his hip, jerking Ruby's knife free, and lunging with a burst of energy, she tackles Erica to the ground, knife pressed to her throat.

Erica gasps but doesn't move.

"Take it back!" Alicia snarls.

"No." She laughs outright, and Castiel wonders if he's the only one that hears the relief in it. "You think there's anything I wouldn't do for you? Kill me; I'll let you, if that's what it takes to prove it."

"You had me pushed me down that hill; you ordered Darryl to lie; don't _tell_ me it was Micah that trapped me in that cabin, that was you, too!" Alicia says savagely. "You think it didn't count because you didn't do it yourself? Do I look that stupid?"

"Do I look stupid enough to lie to you when I'm trying to make contract?" Erica retorts. "Especially with an angel around? Come on, baby--"

"Don’t call me that," Alicia breathes, and Castiel sees the tears in her eyes. "Don't pretend you ever gave a shit--"

"I wasn't pretending then, and I'm not now," Erica answers. "You think I went through this much trouble for _him_? All I had to do was wait until Dean threw him across the Kansas border, and ten minutes later, he'd be hound shit. His soul, I'd give it back as filthy as he gave it up, but I'd do it; all of it, everything, was for _you_."

The blade against Erica's throat begins to tremble. 

"I never betrayed you," Erica says, holding Alicia's eyes as she eases upright, Alicia's knife in measured retreat. "Which is more than you can say for your friends, Alicia; Kat sold you out, Dean sent you here himself, and Cas drove you right into my arms; baby, it's not like they didn't know what was going to happen. Nice solution to getting rid of you and keeping their hands clean, don't you think? And Kyle...." She shrugs, wrapping a gentle hand around Alicia's wrist. "Not too bad for a date rapist and stalker if you're into Micah Mark II, I guess. Trust me, he'll fit in just fine where I'll be seeing him."

Alicia doesn't answer even as Erica eases her hand down to her lap.

"There we go," Erica whispers. "Now, I have things to do, so...." There's a faint blur, and then Erica's standing by Alicia's kneeling figure. "Don't worry about Micah," she says to Alicia's bent head, pulling the throwing knife free of her chest and dropping it into the snow. "I'm going to invent new ways for him to pay for what he did to you. Later." Turning with a flicker of red, she vanishes into the brush.

"Alicia," Dean starts, but Castiel stops him with a hand on his arm as Alicia gets unsteadily to her feet, hooking Ruby's knife in her belt, and rises as well, slowly pacing her to Micah's body.

Carol glares at her from red-rimmed eyes. "You--" And stops at whatever she sees on Alicia's face.

Stepping past her, Alicia looks down at Micah's body, and following her gaze, Castiel remembers that blur after Alicia was shot. One of her throwing knives is buried in his throat to the hilt, breaching the trachea and embedding itself in the spine; slowly, alone and unnoticed, he choked to death on his own blood.

Crouching, she jerks her knife free, checking it carefully for damage. Her strict training holds true even now; in lieu of her cleaning supplies, she wipes the blade fastidiously clean on the edge of her shirt, then shoves up her sleeve and slides it into place with the others against her inner arm. For a moment longer, she looks down at him, expressionless, and then her lips curve; as she looked at the monster that tried to kill her that long ago day, she gazes on one that chased her for so long and now never will again: _I win._

Pushing herself up, she steps over Micah's body with the same interest she'd step over a rock in her path and takes three more steps before she pauses, looking startled, and Castiel moves, catching her before she hits the ground.

Dean's beside him in an instant, gun raised. He feels the others watching him hungrily, impotent hatred and rage written into every line of their bodies. The agony of the rack stripped them of their humanity, not their memories; when they rose, they kept their fear of him in full measure. Even if they'd forgotten, however, Dean will kill them if they so much as move, so he's comfortable ignoring them.

"Alicia?" Castiel asks, and she frowns at him in confusion. "You...stumbled."

"Yeah," she agrees threadily, trying to sit up and sinking back down immediately. "Death. Really takes it out of you."

"How are you feeling?"

"Alive," she says flatly, and he helps her upright, bending to protect her from the eyes that watch them. Head falling onto his shoulder, she sucks in a breath, and he feels the uneven rhythm of her breathing against his neck, the fast beat of her heart, the faint tremor of her body, and tightens his arms in reassurance. Stroking her loosened hair forward to give her better protection, he follows Dean's gaze to see something not-quite fog drifting across the road and through the brush. Thickening, it spins into narrow ribbons, circling through the clearing and winding around the demons still present in sickly tentacles that tighten more at each revolution. "Dean?"

"Just a minute." He focuses on the closest of the visible demons, whose growing fear as the ribbons draw closer melts into something else when he sees Dean watching him. "Luke, right?"

Luke bares his teeth in a soundless snarl that changes into shock when he realizes he can't make a sound.

"Just wanted to be sure," Dean tells him. "Remember the rack?"

Luke licks his lips, mouth opening and closing uselessly.

"Next time I see you," he continues softly, right hand clenching around something Castiel can't quite see, "you're going to wish you were still on it."

Castiel tries to speak, but the words die on his lips; reaching out, he rests a hand against Dean's thigh.

"But what's coming up now--not a bad second choice," he adds with a slow smile. "Give Crowley my regards, right about--"

Abruptly, grey smoke pours out from a dozen locations in the quiet woods, forming a thick, greasy cloud, and the ribbons hungrily curl through them, twining against each other and through it with lazy pleasure, widening by degrees, before they begin to fold the cloud into themselves like paper origami, razor angles and agonized screaming tucked into each progressively smaller fold until it vanishes from sight.

"--now." Dean holsters his gun and when he looks down, Castiel sees only tired green eyes and a relieved smile. Crouching, he catches Castiel's hand before he can withdraw it, brushing an absent kiss against the dirty knuckles. "Good job, and next time, I'm _locking you_ in our room, free will is bullshit."

Castiel is surprised into a laugh. "However will you keep me there with nothing but a lock?"

"I have a few ideas," he says softly, and Castiel tips his head back at the brush of knuckles against his cheek. "So--"

"Really?" Alicia whispers. "I'm _right here_. Literally between you." Her expression turns to horror. "It's not even kinky, just...uncomfortable and weird." 

Dean looks from her to Micah, cocking his head in a fast, professional assessment, approving, before telling her, "Nice distraction."

"Thanks," she says faintly. "I had a plan."

"Good to know. Next time, how about using it?" Dean asks. "We're gonna talk about stabbing the asshole _before_ getting shot, how does that sound? Less stressful, no one dies." 

"Oh." She nods at him blearily. "He kept--getting out of range."

"Next time, don't tell him your goddamn range, then." Dropping a hand to her shoulder, he squeezes gently. "Who are you?"

She swallows. "Alicia of Chitaqua. Who survived after all."

"We'll work on meaning it," Dean says, squeezing her shoulder again before letting go and jerking his head toward their jeep. "You ready to get out of here?"

As Castiel nods--yes, please--something occurs to him. "Where are Amanda and Joseph?" A quick survey shows no sign of an additional jeep, which leads to wondering how Dean arrived here.

"By now, probably walking back from the other gate and pissed as hell," he answers. "Long story, tell you all about it when we get back. Now, can we go?"

Alicia nods before she makes a tremendous effort and starts to move. "Sounds good. Just need to get up." Then, in blatant denial of reality when her head drops back on his shoulder after getting an entire two inches, "Just. Give me a minute."

"As long as you need," Dean assures her. "But--don't tell anyone--Chuck has pictures of Cas carrying me because they're both dicks."

She stills; when he glances down, she's looking at Dean in bafflement laced with what is definitely the beginnings of a plan to get those pictures as soon as possible.

"I tried to make Chitaqua's entire perimeter in one go a couple of months ago," he explains. "I was fine, but Chuck panicked, and Cas was almost crying when he got there--"

"I was _not crying_."

"--so I figured he'd feel better if I let him take me back," Dean finishes smugly. 

"You fainted," Castiel says flatly. "You stayed unconscious through Chuck's horrified screams for help and entreaties I not kill him when I got there--"

"Wait, I remember that," Alicia interrupts, making a faint movement like she wants to straighten. "Thought Chuck was being eaten by a were-bear or something but later saw him whole and alive, so there goes a couple of hours I'll never get back assembling a were-bear trap and avenging his death with were-bear-murder, stew, and moisturizer."

Dean stares at her, mouth half-open as if undecided on which part of that to address first or even wants to.

"We were running super-low on meat then, and bear fat is excellent for moisturizer as well as chilblains," she explains. "And lube, for future reference. I had several volunteers lined up to try it out. There was a sign-up sheet."

"Christ," Dean breathes, covering his face, and Castiel watches him silently decide on a course of pretending this conversation didn't happen. Far better than the alternative, such as the moment you realize you're not sure if a were-bear counts as human (cannibalism) and also, you're actually asking yourself that very question, and far worse, want an answer. Mortality contains many of those moments, he reflects; he's still trying to decide how often a sheepapus goes into heat (sex is so enjoyable, only once a year seems cruel).

"I didn't faint," Dean says firmly, glaring at Castiel as if he was the one who brought up were-bear stew and were-bear-fat lubrication. "Mostly. Anyway, sometimes--when you're mostly conscious and your boyfriend is sobbing--shut up, Cas--and your legs won't move anymore--it's okay to, you know…." Dean trails off, looking pained. "You know?"

"Let other people help you?" Alicia says faintly and seeing his enthusiastic nod, looks at Castiel incredulously. "So this is what a life lesson from Dean Winchester feels like."

"What does it feel like?" he asks curiously.

"Weird," she says, starting to laugh but it almost immediately changes to a sob before she stops it against his shoulder. "Okay, onward and--and upward maybe?"

"You got it," Dean tells her before saying, in a very different voice, "Everyone who wants inside the gate better be there before I am."

Kyle is still kneeling where they left him, looking bewildered, but as if waiting for Dean's order, Kat and Cathy obediently start toward the other jeep. Carol, red-eyed and shaken, gives Micah one last glance before getting to her feet and following more slowly. 

"Kyle," Dean says quietly, but it gets Kyle's attention. "Get up and get in the jeep with them or you're staying here."

Clumsily finding his feet, his eyes focus on Alicia. "Alicia," he says, starting toward them before stopping short when he realizes Dean's in his way and there's a gun pointed at his head. "What--"

"Go," Dean says calmly followed by the unmistakable click of the safety. "Now."

Kyle's mouth works soundlessly, staring down the barrel of Dean's gun but even that's not enough to keep him from focusing on Alicia in betrayal and growing anger. Castiel tightens his arms as Alicia starts to shake again, trying to offer reassurance she can feel and would be able to trust instead of the words that right now, she wouldn't be able to hear, much less understand. "I saved your life!"

"Or I shoot you," Dean adds without changing expression, but Castiel can sense a dangerous stillness beneath his calm, watchful and waiting for nothing more than a single misstep. "Ten years or now: this story ends the same either way, and you're the only one who cares how long it takes to get there." 

Kyle isn't completely stupid; staring at Dean fixedly, he starts to tremble, bewilderment and terror fighting for supremacy before human instinct takes the decision from his hands. He starts to back away, turning toward the jeep but is unable to stop himself from glancing back and trips over Micah's body. Landing in a messy sprawl, he sits up and stares at the ruins of Micah's throat before scrabbling desperately backward and finding his feet, makes for the other jeep at something just short of a run.

Dean watches him expressionlessly, fingers flexing on the hilt of his gun until he holsters it when Kyle's inside. Resting a hand on Castiel's back, he urges them into a slow walk. "Jeremy, start it up," he yells.

"Can I drive?" Jeremy calls back, and while still pale, he seems well; Castiel makes a note to speak to him later, perhaps over a meal. That works very well with Dean, he's discovered, and it would also assure Jeremy remains in his line of sight for the foreseeable future.

Dean looks at Castiel suspiciously. "Who taught him to drive?"

"I did." For some reason, Dean looks alarmed. "He's very good."

"I'm driving," Dean decides, eyes going to Alicia, frightening still in his arms. "It'll be okay, promise."

Alicia's fingers tighten on Castiel's shoulder. "How would you know," is muffled but audible against his coat. 

"Sam told me." He nods to Joelle as she opens the back door and Castiel eases inside with Alicia in his arms, and she gets in behind them, shutting the door. "You got shotgun," he tells Jeremy, who sighs and moves to the passenger side as Dean climbs in. Getting out the hand unit, he slides the earpiece into place. "This is Dean of Chitaqua; who is this?" He pauses, mouth tightening. "Got it. Meet us at the West Gate; any of them try to run, shoot 'em. And get me Manuel." Looking at Alicia in the rearview mirror, he says, "We'll drop you off at Headquarters with--"

"I'm okay," she says tiredly, lifting her head. "Mortuary, right?"

At the buzz from the hand unit, he starts to answer, then hesitates. "You don't have to--"

"I do," she says. "For Andy." Then, with a catch in her voice, "And for Cathy."

* * *

Dean isn't surprised that after a murmured word to Alicia, Cas is the first out of the jeep, nearly vibrating with restrained paranoia as he escorts Jeremy and Joelle into Headquarters and (on a guess) directly into Kamal's startled custody with what is probably a honest to God frightening order to not let them out of his sight.

When he returns, Dean checks his expression in the rearview mirror and can't stop himself from asking, "So what did Kamal say?"

"He'll throw himself physically upon them if they should try to move more than three feet away from him," Cas says absently. "Kara is seeing to their injuries and will send to the infirmary if further medical attention is needed."

Assuming anyone's available, that is.

When they reach the mortuary, Joe and Manuel are waiting outside, Joe adding an accusing glare Dean can feel as he parks on the opposite side of the street and gets out. Opening the back door, he hesitates. "Alicia...." He's not sure what to add after that. "Stay behind Cas, okay?"

She nods, and if she's not entirely steady on her feet, she's walking at least. It feels like miles to cross the street, going between the two parked jeeps, each with two members of the Souls For Sale club bent over the hood, disarmed and surrounded by grim teams who didn't bother pretending to play nice: Lee's got Kat and Cathy, while Anyi's keeps close watch on Carol and Kyle. Cathy's crying, while Carol and Kyle have the good sense to keep their mouths shut (though Kyle's expression says he's starting to work out how much he's fucked up), but Kat makes up for it, alternating between demands and pleading, and the fact Jane's hovering right behind her tells him Kat's not being gracious here.

Manuel extends a hand and pulling him into a surprising hug. "I heard about Gary," he says quietly. "After this morning, we should have put a watch on Cathy--"

"Dude, plenty to go around," Dean says hoarsely, stepping back. "More ours than yours. North Gate?"

"Volunteers from six towns, no Alliance members," Manuel answers. "Their families--and a couple of the mayors--are at the infirmary with Alison. If it helps, we're all in this together, literally; the Alliance is being informed now."

"Anyone from Carol's town?" Manuel shrugs; yeah, he wouldn't want to claim her either. Glancing at the closed mortuary doors, currently guarded by two of Ichabod's patrol, he asks, "How long?"

"Callisto sent word about forty-five minutes ago," he says. "Amanda, Sarah, and Mel's team arrived just after I did. We're running short, so Kamal sent Ana's team to help; I sent them to secure the room and keep the staff calm while we checked the building. Callisto was the only one in the room when--" He stumbles over the lack of word for it. "When it happened. She left, locked the door, and ordered the staff upstairs before she called us. She's still down there," he adds. "She won't leave until she's sure."

"Any word from the infirmary?" Dean asks Joe, eyes flickering to the mortuary doors and back to Jane shoving Kat flat on the jeep, leaning down to say something that makes her go still.

"Just came back," Joe answers soberly. "Phil's still out, but Dolores said his vitals are good, and Valli's hopeful; she's on observation. Drew's leg should be okay, needed blood and will definitely need some rehab, but he's stoned as fuck right now and gives no shits about anything. Vera's got Mark in surgery, no word yet, but she wasn't the calm of imminent death, so I figure he's got a good shot. Haruhi and Rosario are still groggy, but they'll be fine; they both got the charcoal treatment, but that was precautionary. Karl and Dolores are working on those from the North Gate: one died on the way here, but the others--not sure yet."

"Your call," Dean murmurs to Manuel.

"Let's get this over with," Manuel says flatly, nodding at Lee. "Lee, let's take them down."

* * *

The mortuary is one of the few buildings that started life before the Zone as a mortuary; the combination of charming small-town storefront with its function is something he tries not to think about too hard. The front room--a cross between reception and waiting--is where the staff is gathered under Ana's team's protective eye and keeping them from the door to the basement where the bodies are stored. 

"This everyone?" Manuel asks Ana, who nods sharply. "Clear them out."

"Yes, sir," she answers, and signals her team to start herding the frightened staff toward the front door as they continue down a narrow hall and past a grim looking Lalitha and Cliff through the door and down the basement stairs. Manuel leads the way, with Cas and Alicia bringing up the tail, so Dean's in the perfect position to see Kat and Cathy sandwiched between her and Lee; their eager expressions are obscene.

Reaching the basement floor, two more of Naresh's people wait outside the door and reluctantly leave at Manuel's dismissal. Manuel waits until the sound of their feet on the stairs ends with a locked door, then opens the door, and Dean takes in the scene at a glance; Callisto is standing in front of the locked door to the room they keep the bodies with Amanda and Sarah on either side, talking to her quietly while Mel and her team are placed at key points, rifles pointed at the door behind Callisto. 

Dean thinks of what Callisto must have seen in there and gives her credit for more guts than he thinks any civilian--even in the infected zone--should ever have to have. Just then, almost on cue, Dean hears a baby start to wail, and Christ. Christ, this is really happening.

"Del," Cathy whispers, starting to the door and only stopped by Manuel's grip on her arm.

"Hey Dean," Amanda says, but her attention is focused Kat. Even disarmed, Kat's dangerously unpredictable, and he doesn't put using Cathy as a human shield past her right now. "Manuel, Cas. All status quo--" Another wail, and Amanda's jaw sets briefly. "Ante."

"Let me go," Cathy says as she tries to pull free. "That's Del, Manuel!"

"Andy!" Kat shouts, looking startled when Amanda shoves her back. "What are you doing? Andy's in there. Andy! I'm coming!"

"Dean?" Amanda asks, staying between Kat and the door. 

"Dean," Kat says desperately, spinning to look at him like she just realized he was there, oblivious to Cas and Manuel both drawing on her, and it's almost like a play. He knows his lines to the letter, could recite this beginning to end, but it's not like she's gonna hear a thing. "Tell them to open the door! It's Andy! He's going to be wondering what's going on!"

"Callisto, report," Manuel says calmly.

"There are two individuals inside," Callisto says calmly. "I was alone when the--the infant appeared on the table, and I heard a voice coming from the unit." She pauses for a horrible moment. "From what I heard, the--other individual is probably out now. They haven't said anything, however."

"Good job," Manuel says, voice gentle. "Give the key to Amanda and come here."

Amanda's mouth drops open. "What--"

"You have your orders," Dean tells her, and she shuts her mouth. "Callisto, give Sarah the key. It'll be okay." 

He sees Callisto's eyes dart to Cas and wetting her lips, she tries to say something. Before Dean can stop him--or realize there's something to stop--Cas crosses the room and effortlessly eases between Callisto and the door, hand resting lightly on her back. Taking a deep breath, Callisto gives the key to Sarah before taking Cas's offered arm with a slight stumble. 

As they pass, he hears Callisto murmuring, "...couldn't make my legs move. I don't know what happened there. The sound he made when--in the drawer...."

"I'm impressed you're not catatonic," Cas answers before nodding at Lee and Jane. "Please escort Callisto upstairs and see to her comfort. We shouldn't be long."

When they're gone, Dean looks at Amanda, and reluctantly, she steps aside, and Sarah unlocks the door. "Mel," he says, and when they're inside, Manuel lets go of Cathy and steps back. Kat and Cathy seem too surprised to move, then they dart to the door and go inside.

He waits long enough for Cas to reach him before following Manuel, relieved that Cas has Alicia to worry about right now and won't argue that Dean's keeping himself between him and what's waiting in that room.

When he reaches the doorway, it's all he can do not to run right back out.

Cathy's sitting on one of the dissection tables, crying with a huge smile, a naked baby in her lap; on the other side of the room, Kat has a confused Andy in her arms. Mel and Daniel have taken positions diagonal of Andy, rifles raised and ready, while Daniel and Lyz keep to the center of the room between him and Dean. Dean glances at Cas and sees his expression change, automatically pushing Alicia behind him and reaching for Dean.

It's no like he thought it could happen any other way. "How long?"

"Minutes," he says, then his gaze passes Cathy to Del, resting on her with terrible pity. "Longer."

Eventually, Kat draws back in belated awareness of Andy's lack of enthusiasm. "Andy?" she asks, cupping his face and frowning when he tries to step back, confusion slowly turning into dawning understanding. "I fixed it," she says eagerly. "Now we'll be together."

Andy blinks at her then looks up, searching the room--Daniel's face is streaked with tears, and Lyz is barely holding it together, Mel, David, and Amanda intent, Sarah impassive--and becoming more frantic. "Alicia?" he asks, voice shaking. "Where's Alicia?"

"No--" Kat says as Alicia steps out from behind Cas, saying, "Right here, Andy."

Andy breathes out in relief. "What's going on?" His voice breaks on the last word. "What happened? We got back inside, right?"

"Andy," she whispers, and jerks a little; glancing down, Dean sees Cas's hand locked around her arm. "We did, yeah. Just stay calm, okay? It's--"

"Shut up," Kat says venomously, tightening her hold on Andy. "Don't listen to her, Andy, she killed you! I _saved_ you, I fixed everything, it's fine."

"What?" Andy looks down at her, then at the dingy bandage still covering his forearm. "Wait, I--I remember...."

"I _fixed it_!" Kat insists. "You're fine!"

Andy's eyes snap to Alicia. "I was in Headquarters," he says, holding her eyes. "I remember--"

"It _doesn't matter_!" Kat snaps, trying to make him look at her. "It's not important. We'll leave, okay? Go--"

"Alicia?"

"Don't listen to her!" Kat says, jerking Andy's face down. "She killed _babies_ , Andy! She killed her _own_ baby, she's crazy! I love you," she says, smiling tremulously. "Now, let's--"

Andy grabs Kat's wrists, pulling them away from his face as he focuses on Alicia. "How long?"

"Minutes," she answers. "I'm so sorry, Andy."

"Oh God." Grabbing Kat's shoulders, he shoves her away, looking frantically around the room. "What are you waiting for? Shoot me!"

"No!" Kat throws herself at him, clinging desperately. "No, you don't understand, it's fine! It's fixed, there's nothing--"

"Dean?" Mel asks quietly, Andy sighted in her rifle.

Gary, Mark, Drew, Phil, Haruhi, Rosario....

"Andy, listen to me!" Kat begs, and Andy staggers back into the other table, trying frantically to push her away. "It's fine, what are you doing--" Staring up into Andy's face, she frowns as it goes blank, a shudder rippling through his body as his hands close over the edge of the table, knuckles white. "Andy? What's wrong?"

...four dead and four injured from the North Gate....

"Dean?" Mel asks again, finger resting just short of the trigger.

"On my mark."

Kat looks at Andy in bewilderment. "Andy?"

...Alicia, and now, again, Andy.

The blank look vanishes; lips curling in a snarl, Andy jerks forward, grabbing Kat, and Dean sees her reflexively drop. Good enough. "Mark."

They take out his head in three shots, and Kat scrambles backward, sprinkled in blood and brain. Eyes wide, she watches Andy's body topple over and hit the floor before she starts to scream.

"Twelve hours in isolation under guard," Dean says. "At least one person in the room at all times."

"Same," Manuel says flatly, looking at Cathy, who's absorbed in counting Del's toes over and over, oblivious to the blood splatter that sprinkles her jeans.

"I'll take Cathy," Alicia says tonelessly. "If that's okay, Manuel."

Manuel nods agreement. "Anyi's team can stay with you after Naresh picks up the other two."

"We'll take Kat," Mel says, not quite lowering her rifle, eyes following Kat's every move while David keeps most of his attention on the remains of Andy: just in case. 

Sarah takes a breath. "I should--"

"No," Mel says gently. "Nothing worth your time here. Drew and Phil need you; keep us updated, okay?"

Kat twists around desperately. "Sarah," she says in relief, and Dean watches numbly as she gets to her feet. "Sarah, please, you have to--Andy--"

Sarah looks at Dean. "Go," he says quietly. "Joe said Drew's pretty stoned; make sure he doesn't hit on too many of the nurses."

"Sarah?" Kat says frantically, starting toward her, boots sliding out beneath her on the blood-slick floor and landing on her knees. "Sarah, wait-- _Sarah_...!" Dean automatically blocks Sarah's exit and then hears the click of a safety followed by a strangled gasp before silence descends. Kat's frozen, half on her knees, bloodshot eyes huge in her blood-streaked face, and the hardest thing Dean's ever done is keep his finger off the trigger. Move, he tells her silently; one finger, that's all I need.

"Cas," he says instead, "restrain little Miss Fixit, would you?"

He keeps his gaze on Kat's shocked face as Cas wraps an arm around her waist and lifts her bodily from the floor, legs dangling uselessly beneath her. That actually isn't better, he realizes belatedly; now she's right by _Cas_ and he's really not okay with that.

"Lyz," Cas says calmly, "find a source of water and something clean for the prisoners to wear, scrubs are acceptable; Daniel, find three rooms upstairs with adequate locks; Amanda, please inform the infirmary that we require a sedative for two people." Without hesitation, all three nod, and if they don't hurry to the door, it's only professional pride. "Dean, due to the risk of contagion, it would be prudent for you and Manuel to leave this building until decontamination has been completed and the prisoners secured. Joseph, please escort them, if you would."

"Tony's sending two teams for clean-up," Manuel says mildly, wrapping a hand around Dean's wrist and easing it down; by habit, he flicks off the safety and manages to unlock his fingers enough to let Manuel take it. If he works at it, he can almost pretend he doesn't hear multiple sighs of relief. "Cas, would you mind supervising until the prisoners are in quarantine? Anyi can take it from there."

"Of course," he agrees, indifferent to the Croat blood from Kat on his clothes and arms, a smear on his chin.

"Mel, David," Dean says, and both straighten. "Stay with Cas until both of them are locked up."

"Yes, sir," Mel says soberly.

"She tries to touch anyone before the twelve hours are up--"

"If either of them does anything I judge objectionable, I'll shoot them," Cas says. "I'll report when they're secured."

As Joseph herds him and Manuel out the door, he glances back to see Cas lowering Kat to the floor, where she slumps into a pathetic ball, sobbing like she'll never stop.

Cathy never looks up, not once.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check warnings in end notes.

_\--Day 157, continued--_

Naresh arrives only a few minutes after Joe herds him and Manuel outside and onto the deserted road, expressionless and radiating a deadly calm that manages to cow even Kyle into silence. Or maybe Naresh ordering them taken into custody finally penetrates whatever the fuck made Kyle think anything that happened today was going to end well for him. As Kyle's herded away, he looks desperately at Dean, but whatever he was going to say is left unspoken when Dean turns away.

It seems like days but is probably only a few minutes before Anyi comes out. "Cathy's infected."

Manuel pales. "What? How? It was only splatter--"

"Alicia was supervising her in the shower--outside the door," she says quickly when Dean steps forward. "She saw blood, and Cas went to check. There's a fresh cut on her inner arm and I verified one on Del's left foot. I found a broken scalpel in her jeans; she probably picked it up in the morgue when we weren't looking."

Looking between them, Dean realizes neither are surprised. And come to think, neither is he.

"I should have warned Cas--"

"Warned him to let her do it?" Anyi asks softly, and Manuel stiffens. "Don't tell me you're not thinking it. If we'd let her do what she wanted to when Del died the first time--"

"Anyi!"

"We wouldn't be in the middle of a redux," Anyi continues hotly. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"Anyi, it wasn't just Cathy," Dean offers into the charged silence. "Even if she hadn't been part of it, Kat and Carol would have found another way."

"No one else," she says, still looking at Manuel, "had infirmary and drug cabinet privileges that would have gone along with this. Sure, they might have pulled off something, but without Cathy--"

"That's enough." Anyi shuts her mouth, jaw tight. "We'll talk about this later."

"Much later," Cas says, joining them, and Dean blesses Cas's ability to just not give a shit about tension. "I confirmed Cathy is in first stage as of three minutes ago."

"That fast?" Manuel asks.

"It's been almost an hour since speculated exposure," Cas answers. "Direct blood transfer to an open wound tends to show more quickly."

Manuel nods tightly.

"Callisto is not infected--which considering she had no direct or even indirect exposure is not a surprise--but she has requested she wait out the remaining three hours it can take first stage to manifest and I confirm she's not infected," Cas continues. "I asked Ana to keep her company and sent Evelyn to inform Callisto's charges that she's working late and will be home before dawn."

Dean remembers the kids with Callisto at the fire and what Cas told him about who died outside the walls: yeah, they don't need to know about this.

"Thanks, Cas," Manuel says heavily. "I should have--"

"All of us are stretched thin at the moment," Cas says. "Evelyn offered to stay with them for the rest of the night, as the other adults who would usually be available are on duty at this time or otherwise occupied. She'll reassure them and keep them distracted until Callisto comes home." Cas hesitates. "I thought it would also reassure Callisto to know the children are safe and occupied."

Despite everything, Dean smiles at that. "Good job." He clears his throat, wondering where the roughness came from and why. "So what next?"

"I verified that Manuel's building is currently unoccupied, so you both will spend the next three hours there, which will put you well past the last possible time for first stage to manifest," Cas says. "There's almost no chance of infection, but you were both in the mortuary when a Croatoan manifested and were exposed to blood splatter. On your boots," he adds.

Dean looks down when Manuel does: yeah, that.

"Joseph will oversee your decontamination before escorting you there," Cas continues. "I sent for a change of clothing for you both already. Alison is being informed now, but I understand that quarantine can be carried out anywhere. She approved the choice of location."

"Why not here?" Dean asks; he's gonna say this isn't just about the chances of infection.

"For one, I do not think it would be in anyone's interest for it to be discovered Chitaqua's leader and one of the co-leaders of Ichabod's patrol were directly exposed to Croatoan at manifestation, almost non-existent the chances of infection might be. However, on the off-chance it gets out, we can confirm you both were isolated after."

"He's right," Joe says from behind them. "There are going to be enough rumors going around about tonight; adding panic to the mix isn't going to help."

To Dean's relief, Manuel doesn't argue. "I'd like to see Cathy--"

"No," Cas says flatly, and Manuel gets a stubborn look that Dean recognizes from his own face. "Cathy already deliberately infected one person with Croatoan--"

"Herself!" Manuel interrupts. "What do you think she's going to do, go after me? She wouldn't do that!"

"Haruhi and Rosario have been moved to our headquarters and are under observation there, due to the infirmary being rather overburdened with the other survivors of those she didn't go after today," Cas says evenly. "Which would be my second reason for you to wait out quarantine in another building; I don't want either of you in the same building--or even street--as any of the surviving perpetrators. While I may not technically have any authority over you, I hope you'll see the logic because you aren't going in there until quarantine is ended."

"I do," Anyi says while Dean firmly doesn't admit Cas kind of does have that authority over him. "Over Manuel, at least. You know the rules as well as I do; you've been compromised and as third ranking officer in patrol, in the absence of your co-commander, I'm taking command now. And if you think Teresa would disagree, I'll go get her right now."

"Cathy didn't know what she was doing."

"Sure she did," Anyi answers. "She was getting her daughter back; everything and everyone else was details. Now, you want to brief me before you go?"

After a moment, Manuel nods shortly, and Dean takes Cas aside. "What's going on with Anyi?" Cas gives him a querying look. "Dude, she's taking this personally: why?"

"She just received custody of her daughter, Sera," he answers, adding, "She adopted one of the orphans left behind by the infiltrators."

Huh. "She sees herself in Cathy's place and doesn't like it."

"No," Cas says slowly, frowning. "She sees the infiltrators in Cathy and the reason they did what they did to this town. And why Sera--and those other children--are orphans."

Love, power, jealousy, grief, ambition, revenge, it's always personal, but it's always about you; you don't sell your soul for anyone or anything but yourself.

"Alicia still with Cathy?" 

"Yes," he answers, an edge in his voice. "Technically speaking, she is under quarantine as well due to proximity and the possibility of microscopic blood splatter--"

"She actually said that."

"Yes, but with more words. I confirmed she wasn't infected, but...." Cas trails off, looking uncertain.

"She wants to see this through." Why is the question, but even Alicia may not have an answer for that one. All his instincts scream to order her out of there--he gets what Cas meant about him and Manuel being in the same building as Cathy or Kat--but something stops him. "Is Cathy a danger to her?" Would Alicia let her be, is what he means; if she hasn't hit threshold on dealing, she's damn close to it, and accidents happen, especially if you're wanting one.

"I talked to Anyi, privately," Cas says, answering both questions. "Her team has orders to shoot on suspicion. I doubt there's any physical danger, however. All Cathy's attention is focused on her daughter."

"You can't think this is a good idea."

"I think it's a terrible idea," Cas answers. "But I think it would be a much worse idea to make Alicia leave."

Alicia's had enough of her choices taken away today (and during her whole goddamn life); short of suicide by Cathy, she gets to have this one, even if its shitty. From the corner of his eye, he sees Manuel and Anyi waiting and moves to his least favorite subject. "Kat?"

"Crying." Yeah, no surprise there. "Daniel or Liz report to me every thirty minutes, but they've assured me that David and Mel are taking turns holding a gun on her at all times and time their blinks."

"Good." If they get lucky, she'll do something stupid; they aren't, so on a guess, Kat's gonna be just fine come morning. "Keep me updated, okay?"

"Joseph will run relay between here, the infirmary, and Naresh," Cas confirms. "He'll report to you hourly."

Dean wants to do something, but he settles for squeezing Cas's shoulder before letting Joe herd them toward their three hour fate.

* * *

_\--Day 158--_

"Eddie, right," Manuel says abruptly, rolling the beer bottle between his palms. "He was an asshole."

Sitting in the armchair caddy corner to the couch, Dean takes a sip from his own bottle. "Cathy's husband?"

"Asshole," Manuel says darkly. "Talk about a goddamn cliché; might as well have had 'good ole boy' tattooed on his forehead."

Dean nods: one of those, yeah.

"Didn't like to work, didn't like patrol, didn't like the neighbors, didn't like the community, didn't like our leadership," Manuel continues. "But he liked eating and living--and drinking, that he could do--and not like you can throw someone out for being an asshole."

"I would," he protests, and Manuel rolls his eyes. "Cathy?"

"Cathy." Manuel sighs. "She worked enough for both of them; gotta give her that. He went home early; she finished up for him. He spent the night drinking; she always had an excuse and was ready to help. He went over ration limits; she cut her own. She thought the sun shined out of his ass, and nothing he did or said changed that."

"I'm guessing that finding out he was gonna be a father didn't reform him."

"Nope." Manuel finishes the bottle. "He was pretty happy about it, but luckily we didn't take that as an encouraging sign. Proved right only a couple of weeks later, when he found out he was still required to take a patrol shift every month."

"Pretty pissed?" Manuel's expression is eloquent on that score, and there's something else there as well. "When he was killed...."

"Routine watch," Manuel says flatly. "No idea what he was doing--though a couple of broken bottles gives me a good guess--and we lost eight people before we even knew anything was attacking us. Cathy fell apart."

Christ.

"When Del was born--that seemed to help." Manuel opens his third bottle and drinks down half. "We should have--"

"It's not your fault," Dean says quietly, grabbing Manuel's wrist before he can lift the bottle again. He thinks he knows another reason why Cas wanted him to stay with Manuel for a few hours. "You couldn't have stopped her once she knew about the Crossroads." 

"I could have stopped her from going for Del," Manuel whispers, eyes going to the clock on the wall as he finishes off the bottle. "You want another one?"

* * *

"In the _mess_?" Manuel says incredulously. "Like--during _dinner_?"

"They were like that," Dean says, taking a drink. "Cas said it was like a public sex bucket list or something; they hit everywhere in Chitaqua."

"But the _mess_...." Manuel trails off. "How far did they get? Not drunk enough yet minds want to know, no idea why."

"Between all the condiments, no one knows for sure." Manuel makes a horrified sound. "When we got here for the party, they christened our first headquarters for about four hours and change."

Manuel laughs. "Laura was looking forward to his arrival. Like a lot."

"He was asking 'are we there yet' the entire way," he replies. "Or so I was told." He shakes his head as he raises his bottle for a drink. "He's never gonna forgive me for stationing him at the daycare...."

"Dean." There's a hand on his shoulder, and he sees Manuel looking at him in understanding and realizes the bottle is frozen halfway to his mouth. He doesn't understand, though; he doesn't know that Dean doesn't know why Gary came to Chitaqua, how old he was, when his birthday was. Hell, he might not even know his real name; he never asked. "Another one?"

He nods, realizing belatedly his bottle is empty. "Yeah." He glances at the clock and away. "I'd like that."

* * *

Dean nurses his latest bottle carefully; he's lost his head for alcohol and for that matter, he can't remember if he ate anything since breakfast and that was forever ago. He tries not to look at the clock; while they're technically done with the three hour quarantine, he's not leaving Manuel alone here to drink the last hours of Cathy's and Del's lives away. So he makes Manuel talk, about anything and everything, their first year in Ichabod, when survival was more a hope than a guarantee. He and Teresa were speed-training civilians on the basics between Antonio, Mercedes, and Dinah teaching everyone how crops worked, and one and all learned how to make cows and pigs into meat, run a power plant, and live a life of much less in the way of gas and not a single goddamn grocery store.

("I learned to ride a horse," Manuel says in the same voice people talk about time spent in warzones (or a vampire nest). "I need another beer."

Dean looked at his grip on the empty bottle and nodded. "I'll get it.")

It blows his mind; a thousand things he never even thought about, lessons the other Dean probably learned the hard way when he was working on those first camps, that other Chitaquans had to learn by living it. Ichabod and the other towns didn't have Dean Winchester and those years in Georgia to give them a baseline, army surplus to supply them, or an ex-angel who could compensate for their learning curve; they had Manuel and Teresa and a lot of hope to drive them through how you grow corn, butcher cows, and hold your ground and keep shooting until the monster's dead.

He's not drunk enough to have any excuse when he bursts out with, "How the hell did you survive?"

"Preacher," Manuel says, shaking his head as he finishes his beer, "see choir."

I didn't, Dean silently tells the mouth of his bottle, swallowing the words with a mouthful of beer. He just waltzed in and is taking credit for it.

Having collected the bottles for the fourth (fifth? Sixth? How the fuck long has it been? It feels like weeks) time, he's trying to decide if Manuel needs more drowning (he'd like to do some of that, come to think) when the front door opens and Mercedes comes in a flurry of cold wind and snow, cheeks burned red from cold and what he suspects was a dead run from the slaughterhouse.

Startled, Manuel puts down his beer and stands up, not quite steady. "I thought you were working until dawn."

"Dina came in and took over," she answers distractedly, shedding her hat and gloves on her way to Manuel, and Dean realizes it's time to go. "She said--why didn't you call me? Are you okay?"

Manuel's expression crumples as Mercedes reaches him, and yeah, time to go. "Manuel," he mouths, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair and gesturing to the door, hoping that's enough. Going outside, he shuts the door firmly behind him, feeling the hit of cold to his toes, and suddenly wants to see Cas more than he's ever wanted anything in his life. 

He gets Joe at the foot of the steps, grinning up at him from beneath the heavy beard and thinks not bad for second choice. "Hey," he says. "What are you doing here?"

"Just came by to say Mercedes is on her way," Joe says. "How the hell did she get here before me? I just talked to Dina on her way to take Mercedes' shift."

Dean snorts as he shrugs on his coat and comes down the steps, glancing up at the sky; the faint rainbow streaks seem faded, somehow, and while it's not snowing now, there's definitely a feeling more is coming. They're almost out of time. 

"You're off-duty as of now, by the way; Cas's order," Joe says, shoving his hands into his pockets and looking smug. "Report to Headquarters, no stalking around the mortuary scaring the civilians."

"You can tell Cas--"

"Did I mention Cas is also at Headquarters and probably in bed by now?" Dean blinks at him. "I ordered it and so it was done."

"That worked?"

"No," he admits. "But there's nothing else for him to do and you've both been up since almost dawn. Anyi brought in two fresh teams to help with watching, so Mel's team can split up and get some rest." Joe shrugs. "Not that Kat's done more than cry herself to sleep."

So much for really, really belated infection or accidental shooting. What they need here is less well-trained trigger fingers, but that's what he gets for assigning professionals. "Lucky her. Callisto out yet?"

"Cas cleared her and escorted her home," Joe says with a fond smile, and all Dean can think that once upon a time, Cas didn't think he could be anything but Dean Winchester's pet killer. Like Alicia thought she'd be beaten to death in her cabin or tortured to death by Dean if she didn't say yes, and was probably right. Why would she think anything else; how many people died in Chitaqua before that attack on Vera and Cas? He doesn't know their names either; some of them didn't even get that much in Dean's goddamn journal.

"Dean?"

"Human skills," Dean says vaguely. "What about Cathy?"

"Only thing that exists for her is Del. Anyi already got what they'll need from the infirmary, so it's up to Cathy on when. Or when Del...you know."

He shoves his hands in his pockets; yeah, he knows. "Alicia?"

"Anyi said she's fine," Joe answers slowly, and actually, Dean kind of does think he knows why Alicia stayed. "Dean, what's she doing in there?" 

It could be anyone; that's how this works. "They're friends," he says. "Were, anyway. Probably saying good-bye." He feels Joe's sharp look. "Anything on Mark?"

"Cas said he was out of surgery, didn't know much else," Joe says quietly, and Dean almost tells him to stop there. "I went over, see if Vera could tell me when he'd wake up. She was helping Dolores with one of the people from the North Gate, but I cornered Chess, and he said--all he knows is that things got dicey, but he's stable now."

"What does that mean?"

"He lost a lot of blood," Joe says bluntly. "And he's not the only one. Usha's been taking donations at the YMCA, and she's got all the volunteers she could want, but that took time. He couldn’t tell me anything else, so I guess we'll find out more in the morning."

Dean makes himself keep walking. "Drew?"

From the corner of his eye, he sees Joe's shoulders relax. "Whoever did the original bandaging remembered their hunter first aid and it doesn't look like blood flow was cut off to the limb or at least, not enough to be dangerous. Two hours and change isn't great when we're talking about a stab wound, but it's not cataclysmic Worst case scenario is some rehab--Dean, stop looking at your arm."

Dean jerks his gaze up to glare up at Joe. "I was checking out the ground."

"Amanda will work with him," Joe says. "You taught her and Vera a lot about rehab after injuries, so thanks for that."

Despite himself, he laughs. "Glad to be of help."

"Our fearless leader," Joe says fondly. "Going where no one wants to go first."

"Phil?"

The pause is just long enough for Dean to know to brace himself. "He woke up. Just a couple of minutes. Reflexes working, responded to pressure on his big toe and fingers, responded to visual stimulus and sound, so--"

"Responded to _sound_?" Dean stops short, powdery snow puffing up around his boots. "What does that mean?"

Joe blows out a breath as he slowly turns around. "Valli said he responded to her voice when she said his name. But she wasn't sure he understood her, or recognized his name. It's too early to even guess, Valli was very clear about that," he adds quickly, which tells Dean that he probably isn't keeping the impassive leader expression he's never bothered working on before; he should get on that. "What we got so far is really encouraging, which they also told me three times, in case you're curious. Yes, it would have been great if he woke up asking what the hell just happened and saying his head hurt, but Kyle cracked his fucking skull; this is good news."

Dean doesn't trust his voice, so he nods.

"They moved him to Drew's room; they need the space, and Sarah...was really into the idea. Valli says familiarity is good, and above all else, when he wakes up, he needs to be calm, and Sarah--well, she can do that."

Sarah beat a Hellhound almost to death until it broke her rifle with the same emotional intensity she gives to breakfast; calm, she can do. Almost immediately, though, he remembers when she came to talk to him about Kat, her expression in the mortuary. At this moment, two of her team members are injured and the other one is waiting out quarantine before being taken into custody for murder and that's just to start the list. "Should she be alone?"

"Yes," Joe says firmly. "Sarah's not a brooder, she's a....processor." Dean just avoids a really inappropriate robot joke; it's so not the time (though from Joe's expression, he's thinking the same thing.) "She sorts out her own head first, and having Drew and Phil will help with that. Trust me, she will not welcome company right now."

On a guess, that also means him. "Have Mel check on her when Kat-watch is done," Dean says finally, and Joe nods approval, falling into step beside him as Dean starts walking again. "Speaking of--anything else I need to know about the prisoners?"

"I checked in with Rohan one last time before I came to get you. They're going to continue questioning tomorrow when Naresh can handle it, and by that I mean, not likely to just push them out a window and be done with it. Solve a lot of problems that way."

Christ, that's tempting. "The volunteers at the North Gate weren't Alliance, yeah."

"Wouldn't be better if they were, but at least there'd be procedure to deal with it, not that it's ever been tested." Joe shakes his head. "Rohan said they'll collect Kat when the twelve hours are up." 

Dean nods, wondering if she'll still be crying. Maybe cutting off her water would help with that; can't be good for you to cry that much. 

"By the way, Naresh gave permission for Chitaqua's command--as in, me, you, Cas, or Vera--to see the prisoners. I talked to Kyle before Rohan put everyone to bed for the night. Alone, I mean."

Dean concentrates on the snowy road. "What did he say?"

"It wasn't his fault." Pretty much exactly the answer he expected. "To hear him talk, Micah did it all when it wasn't Carol, and not saying Carol's not a competent fucking sociopath, but it'd be a trick to do some of it from a wheelchair."

Dean thinks of Bobby, then of Cas's missions with Bobby here. "You'd be surprised what a person can do from a wheelchair."

"Not her first time in one," Joe concedes. "Anyway, they did everything except the parts everyone knows he did, and even then--"

"Let me guess: Phil went for his gun and he didn't mean to hit him that hard but...he didn't try 'self-defense', did he?"

"Close enough," Joe says shortly, and way too late, he realizes how much Joe wanted extenuating circumstances here. Sure, Kyle's a dick--and since he wasn't at that confrontation with Erica, he doesn't even know the entire scope--but two years and change fighting together does mean something, the way Dean's few months just doesn't. Christ, compared to Kyle, Joe barely knows him.

"It could have been any of them," he offers to Joe's tight-lipped silence; from what he heard, Joelle and Jeremy weren't sure in the confusion what went wrong in the hall or who shot Mark or Gary. Mark might know, but they can't count on that; between the confusion, blood loss, and anesthesia, his memory might not be reliable. There's Alison, of course, but that will have to wait a few days (if they have them, Christ), and how much she can find out depends a lot on how everyone involved defines 'truth'. "What else did he say?"

"One thing I do believe," Joe says. "He was in this to get rid of Micah. To save us, he said; to get Alicia back and save us in the bargain, he meant."

"He say anything about Alicia?" 

"Other than asking about her and wanting me to take her a message?" Joe rolls his eyes. "I said fuck no to both, Dean; I'm not an idiot. She doesn't deserve that bullshit."

An image from outside Ichabod flashes through his mind: Erica on one side, Micah on the other, Kyle in waiting, like a trifecta of Alicia's own personal hell. Bargaining for her, talking at her, fighting over her like dogs with a bone, but even looking straight at her, he doesn't think, even once, that any of them actually saw her. No fucking wonder Cas said Alicia would never sell her soul; he'd be fucking surprised she even thought of it as her own to sell.

"Dean?"

"Keep going," he says, trying not to think of Alicia in that room with Cathy. "I gotta hear what Kyle thought was going on."

"I read Naresh's notes before I talked to him, and it's pretty consistent. Kyle's claiming that last night, he and Kat and Carol came up with a plan to trade Micah to Erica to save us. Which is interesting that he found out last night--"

"Since Erica didn't threaten us until this morning, yeah." 

"And we didn't get Micah until after that. To be fair, it wasn't a secret that Micah said Erica was here looking for him, and Carol could confirm," Joe says. "He admitted he was pretty drunk."

"And he didn't wonder why Cathy was involved?"

Joe makes a sound not unlike Yiddish when growled (or maybe just a growl). "He says he thought she was just doing it for community spirit--yeah, seriously--but he knew about her kid. I think he knew she and Kat were planning to deal with Erica, but he might have assumed they were going to trade Micah or something."

"Or just didn't care." Joe nods grimly. "Think he would have gotten a clue when Kat gave Micah a weapon."

"Yeah, that part apparently surprised him."

"You don't say?"

"He said they threatened him," Joe continues, suddenly sounding tired, and right: for all he knows, maybe they used to be friends. Bonds of comradeship and defying death together over years, all that. "The other thing we're still hazy on is what happened at the North Gate. Jeremy and Joelle were in the second jeep with Carol holding a gun on them and Cathy driving, and Kyle was in the other one with Micah and Kat. Cathy got out to help, but they couldn't see what was going on, and not like she reported when she got back."

"And Carol's not talking."

"She's not stupid," Joe says bitterly. "Going to warn you now; it's gonna get out--if it hasn't already--that Carol and Micah were former members of Chitaqua. My money's on the Idiots Two; someone had to be helping those rumors along for them to spread that fast."

"They do take orders well. I wonder if they're still here?"

Joe frowns. "What?"

"I don't know if you noticed, but Carol managed to get a lot of shit done in between surgery, mourning Andy, recruiting Kat, Kyle, and Cathy, and almost dying of gangrene. Gotta give her credit; she didn't fuck around." Joe looks struck. "And assuming Erica was telling the truth--and surprise, I believe her--someone had to kill those people who didn't take the deal. You got other suspects, tell me now; at this point, I wouldn't be surprised by anyone."

"The Idiots Two," Joe says in a voice that makes Dean look at him worriedly. "Here's a thought: I can see some of the refugees going with a Crossroads deal, but why the hell would you just take the word of two guys you never met before and merrily follow them up to a blindspot on the wall to crawl down to do the deed? There's desperate and stupid and then there's a Darwin waiting to happen." 

Dean hasn't met the Idiots Two--Christ, what are their names again?--but he just doesn't think they had that kind of.... "When did Carol get a chance to even talk to Erica? She was attacked by a Hellhound on the way here, and I'm pretty sure that wouldn't have happened if she'd already made a deal."

"Micah said he changed his mind about trading Alicia when he saw her outside the walls," Joe says. "What do you want to bet that Micah went straight to Carol when he bravely escaped the Croats and told her just that?"

"That would explain her mood." And her anger at Alicia, Jesus. "That's why he did it; easy way to get Carol to do his dirty work. Micah took Erica's offer to Carol that night or vice-versus; thirty people to deal. Betting the Idiots Two were one and two, and Christ, I'd love to know what they got from her if it wasn't getting the fuck out of town."

"Invisibility?" Joe's expression darkens. "So she needed twenty-seven more if we count them and her; she didn't know about Cathy and Kat yet and she only had two nights, and that includes the night Micah talked to Erica for her. She's in the infirmary, can't get out and recruit souls, and that's a chancy business at the best of times, so...."

"They came to her. Visitors," Dean says, stopping short. "I thought--Vera said she refused to see them."

"Refused to see them when anyone was watching," Joe says slowly. "Dean, no one's come forward from her town."

"How many--"

"They came in two groups, but it couldn't have been more than a hundred, tops." Joe's mouth works silently. "There were kids."

Which would be a very good reason to make a deal. "Joe, hold up. We don't know--"

"You think of another way she could get that many people that fast?" Joe interrupts hotly. "She was _protecting_ that town! They _carried her here_ on their own goddamn backs after the Hellhound...." Joe's voice trails off. "Meet the Idiots Two by the Wall at midnight and all your problems will go away. No, she probably split them up; someone would have noticed a hundred people suddenly going for a late night walk--"

"Not all of them would have gone."

"Sure they would have," Joe answers flatly. "She didn't tell them what it would cost and no one came back to warn those coming."

Dean looks for a flaw and can't find one. The town has upwards of twenty thousand people; even if a group was noticed, they've been moving people around to new quarters every time another building is cleared for use, and the refugees are working with Ichabod's crews night and day making that happen. Twenty, thirty people with kids and whatever bags they brought with them wouldn't get anyone's attention, maybe especially with kids; they'd assume they were moving to another building.

"She was protecting that town!" Joe snaps, turning on him, and he sees the faint glitter of tears. "They trusted her, and she sold them to Erica. For _Micah_! Who the fuck _does that_?"

Dean starts to laugh before he realizes he's even going to do it. "She's from _Chitaqua_ ," he chokes out. "That's what we _do_."

"What--"

"What, you didn't notice?" he continues, swallowing back more laughter; seriously, what the fuck, Joe? "Going gets tough, we sell souls, doesn't even have to be our own. Friends, enemies, teammates, whoever's closest, I guess, we're not picky. Christ, we do it better than Crossroads; I should have asked Crowley about that."

Joe's expression dissolves into worry. "Dean, come on--"

"Look at our track record; Erica, Stanley, Terry, and Luke did round one, and everyone thought it was such a good idea that we got round two with Micah, Carol, Kat, Kyle, Barney, Stephen.... Doesn't that make you wonder? Like, who _isn't_ making a deal with the devil?"

"No," Joe says quietly. "I don't." 

"Sure you do, every day. Détente, it works, right?" Joe takes a step toward him. "How many people were at Cas's cabin that night, Joe? You lived in the camp for almost three years and never thought about the odds you were friends with one of 'em? Spoiler: you are."

"Dean--"

"Can't judge 'em too hard, though," Dean adds, hand aching, clenched to cramping around nothing. "They were just following tradition, after all, started by your fearless leader!"

The words are out of his mouth and hovering in the air between them before he realizes what he just said. And he doesn't care.

"Said it yourself," Dean says breathlessly. "Going where no one else wants to go first."

"You...." Joe stops. "You didn't--you _wouldn't_...."

"Why?" he asks bitterly. "You think me and Erica are all that different? Sweetheart, you have no fucking idea. Taught her how to torture demons for fun and profit when she was still human; where do you think I learned that?" Joe's eyes widen. "Or didn't you know that part? Surprise."

"No," Joe says, shaking his head. "I know you--"

"What, a couple of months hanging out and suddenly you think we're friends or something? You don't _know_ me!" Dean shouts. "You've never even _met_ me!"

Even this late at night, Ichabod's noise level is only subdued, but right now, there's not a sound; despite the white puffs in front of his face, he can't even hear himself breathe.

"One question," Joe says in a deceptively even voice. "How much longer on your contract?"

He licks numb lips, feeling lightheaded. "I don't have one. Not anymore, anyway. It's been a while."

Joe nods sharply and turns toward headquarters. "We should get back."

"Joe--"

"Unless there's something else, sir."

That would be what a punch feels like in five words. "No."

* * *

When they reach Headquarters, Joe takes off for the mess. Through the open door, Dean makes out Laura with Kamal and Leah on one of the broken down sofas that came from God knows where during Andy's wake. Like the pro he is, Joe crouches to talk to her, taking her hands in his, and over her head, Kamal's eyes meet his. Turning away, he makes it up the stairs and down the hall, mind blank as he takes the back stairs to the third floor. Reaching the door, he jerks it open and walks out into--

"Fuck no," Dean says into the echoing silence, checking behind him; no surprise the goddamn door's gone. "Really not the time, whoever the fuck you are." Or were, he guesses.

Annoyed, he watches the nearest walls, but no frescos appear, and looking around, he realizes the couch and blankets are gone, too. The white walls stay blank, the endless field of marble columns is still endless, but he can't shake the feeling something's off. Even the silence feels different--there's a weight to it, pushing at him, like it's trying to shove him out. 

Then he looks up and stills; those thousands and thousands of stars are fading. He's pretty sure half of them are gone entirely.

"Okay, where are you?" he asks finally, unnerved, and starts to walk, unable to stop himself from checking behind every column he passes (like she's hiding there or something), looking at every bare, featureless plaster wall (for crazy paintings of sad women from mythology), but nothing changes. Eventually, he loses sight of the walls entirely, lost in a forest of columns set with mathematical precision beneath a ceiling (sky?) devoid of half its light

It's not like he needs more paintings to tell him how those stories end, though; only Demeter wasn't fucked entirely, just mostly, and she was a goddess. Mortals don't make out so well when it comes to games the gods play; even when you win, you still lose. Clytemnestra got seven years and three more kids before her son showed up to avenge his asshole father's death (his sister's murder didn't seem to bother him much, though); Hecuba went crazy after seeing the bodies of her kids; and Medea was turned into a hag, but hey, she got a chariot and a dragon from her granddad, so there's that. What's the life lesson here, folks? Revenge is bad, gods are worse, don't combine the two; I bet that helped Cassandra a fucking lot. Justice: you're kidding, right? Where was the justice in what happened to them; where were the fucking gods when their lives were destroyed? Demeter should have let the fucking world burn; hey, how about letting Medea help?

He's not sure how long he's walking, marking his progress by columns: twenty, thirty, fifty, five hundred with no end in sight. The massive ceiling remains half-dark, its vastness like the stretch of a dying universe; he hears Cas say, like he's right beside him: _they've been known to eat galaxies._

"What am I doing here?" he says finally (to the air, the columns, the weight of death; that's what it is, that's what this feels like. It feels like death, like the one he shouldn't have escaped).

"It's not my doing," a voice snaps, and turning around, he sees her standing a few feet away, looking as unnerved as he feels, and tries not to feel relieved she's okay. The dark hair is pulled back into a coronet around her head, and though her dress and jewels reflect that of a Roman noblewoman, the color's all wrong, a dusty grey just edging into dull charcoal before his eyes. Opals at her throat and wrists flicker in faint, sickly green and dull blue, veins of angry red more prominent. "I--"

"I wish you good journey, Germanica," Cornelia says, and they're standing on a grassy rise only a few feet away from a loaded litter, travel wagons already winding down the road. Looking around, he recognizes Cornelia's villa in Misenum, then his entire attention is on the woman Cornelia's speaking to, because _wow_.

"I appreciate your hospitality," she answers in a rich, carrying voice that matches the nearly six feet in height. That's not all that makes her striking, though; the thick mass of black hair is styled into thin locks barely the thickness of a needle and swept up in a thick chignon wound with strands of gold above a face that could be a model for a statue of Venus, the clear, flawless skin a few shades darker than Mira's. It takes him a minute to wonder if he's imagining the glow, but a glance down reveals the discrete mound of her belly beneath the fawn traveling robes: okay, then.

"And yet, I cannot entreat you to take more," Cornelia complains. "Whatever is lacking? I will remedy it."

Germanica laughs, shaking her head. "Nothing is wanting but my husband's house and my own bed for my confinement," she answers, patting her belly. "A second son, I'm sure of it; that gives us two of each, and Titus Annius and I have agreed that will fulfill our duty."

"Four children in seven years, I'd say so," Cornelia answers, tipping her head thoughtfully, and following her gaze, Dean sees three kids chasing each other around the yard. 

A ten year old boy and nine year old girl--both the image of Germanica right down to the large, liquid brown eyes that are gonna break the hearts of a lot of Roman teenagers in a few years--and a brown haired, brown eyed, olive skinned girl with the look of Cornelia that he realizes must be baby Sempronia. Not so much a baby anymore: about nine or ten, he thinks, measuring her against the kids at the daycare. She'd been about one when they'd left Rome, Germanica was still a widow, so eight or nine years, got it. Near another litter, he sees two women handing up a pair of sleepy three year olds, and through the open curtains, another woman is visible holding an infant. Dean does the math twice (that's more than four, not counting the one not here yet) then remembers that Germanica had two kids with her first husband. On a guess, that meeting between Annius and Germanica went pretty well.

"I bear easily," Germanica says with a shrug as another woman joins them; not a servant from her elegant dress and cork-heeled sandals to neatly dressed light brown hair and the way she carries herself. Maybe a friend or cousin, he thinks hazily as she addresses both women with the ease of a noblewoman talking to her equals.

"We're almost ready," she says, then turns a jaundiced eye to Germanica. "And you should not be on your feet so much."

"Exercise is healthful, Cassia," Germanica answers, and he sees Cornelia bring out her straight face with an effort. A nurse crosses behind Germanica with two of the kids looking cranky and he sees another woman leading a disconsolate little Sempronia away. 

"Standing about in all the dust," she answers severely, and Dean's not surprised that no one points out there's no dust or even a breeze to make some happen. 

"So Titus Annius will join you before your confinement?" Cornelia asks.

"He insists on being present, yes," Germanica agrees with a fond sigh. "I sent him word of my arrival; he'll doubtless precede me and already have annoyed the midwife with a thousand questions she's answered twice already and at each other birthing. I've suggested he write down her answers, but he cares not for practicality. Do offer my apologies to Publius Rutilius when you see him; I suspect he was chief confidante."

"I shall miss your company excessively," Cornelia says. "Send me word of your safe delivery; I will make offerings until I hear you are well."

"Thank you." The two women embrace, then Germanica turns to Cassia with a smile that Dean needs absolutely no time to interpret: _that_ kind of friend. As one of the men lifts Germanica into the litter and Cassia after her, Cornelia keeps her smile, watching the litters start down the road until they vanish in the near distance.

The smile falls away, and Dean takes a second to blink at the realization that Cornelia is _old_ : near eighty at least. As she goes back inside, the erect carriage remains, but something else--something more fundamental--is gone.

Then he realizes he's staring at a closed door and this isn't a picture; to his relief, his companion seems stumped by this, too.

"I guess we--go inside?" she says, and looking around the quiet countryside, he's got to agree. He's not entirely surprised they don't need to open the door to get inside, but he tries not to think about it too hard or he might wonder how they can still walk on the ground and not--yeah, don't think about it. It's not like this made sense before.

Luckily, villas are pretty much basic as far as layout, and after a few seconds of wondering where Cornelia went, voices lead them to a light, airy sitting room, where he sees Sempronia, looking about a hundred times better than she did in Rome, reading at a small table. In the privacy of the villa, the braided hair, brown shot with silver grey streaks starting at the temples and winding through the whole, is wound in a thick knot at the back of her head. The simple country dress suits her better than the more elaborate dresses they wore in Rome, and he notices there's ink on it (and on her nose).

She's not a Licinia or a Germanica (or Sappho), no, but the sharp intelligence and faintly sardonic humor in her face make him think she would have been fun to hang out with. The kind of girl you meet in a bar, knows your job on a glance, mocks your pick-up lines, then drinks you under the table while telling you all the best gossip about the other patrons and exactly the information you needed to know. If you're lucky--and interesting enough--she takes you home for one hell of a night and tells you at dawn to either get out or make breakfast already.

(You make her breakfast, obviously. Those were his favorite kind of jobs.)

Beside a low sofa, a servant sits, reading from a scroll, and coming closer, Dean sees someone lying on it, wrapped in woolen blankets despite the warm day. It takes him a second too long to recognize the shrunken figure; it's Claudia.

He's seen enough death to know the signs, even the non-violent kind; the dark eyes seem to swallow her face, sunken and red-rimmed in a face so pale her skin seems almost transparent, like life is barely clinging beneath. As the maid finishes, rolling up the scroll, Claudia opens her eyes. "Bithy?"

"It's time, _dominilla_ ," she says softly, and Dean winces at the flash of fear on Claudia's face.

"Surely not yet," Claudia whispers, a faint, sickly color staining her thin cheeks. "Another hour, perhaps...." Her eyes fly to Sempronia, whose frown vanishes into carefully manufactured attention. "Sempronia, please. Another hour?"

"Surely another hour can't do any harm," Sempronia says, eyes flickering to Bithy.

" _Domina_ ordered it at this hour," Bithy says apologetically. "We must prepare for the--her treatment."

Sempronia looks conflicted but finally nods. "Let me call Felix to help you, Claudia," she says, turning away from the tears streaming silently down Claudia's face. When a man appears--Felix?--Claudia shuts her eyes, turning her head away as he bows to Sempronia.

"Take my sister to her cubicle," she says, watching as he goes to the couch, bowing to Claudia before lifting her from her servant's arms with infinite gentleness. "Please tell Messina to see to Claudia's comfort. Bithy, a moment, please."

He nods, cradling Claudia like she's made of glass, and Sempronia waits until they're gone before turning back to the maid. "I have seen her little over the last few weeks. Has she eaten today?"

"She refused the morning meal and took only bread and water at midday, _domina_."

Sempronia frowns. "She does not grow better despite Emet's treatment." Bithy shakes her head, eyes dropping at Sempronia's frown. "When will Emet see her?"

"In an hour, _domina_."

"I see. Go to my sister now." She nods dismissal, and Bithy makes a quick, relieved obeisance before withdrawing. Taking a deep breath, she returns to the small desk and picks up the pen, passing it between her fingers with a frown. 

Then Sappho comes in, carrying several sheets of unrolled paper, and Dean can't help thinking country life _really_ agrees with her, too. A couple of inches taller--probably about Sempronia's height or so--she's out of her teens and it shows; Dean feels a lot less creepy staring at her.

"I know," his companion murmurs huskily, and Dean throws her a curious look.

"Are you into women?" he asks. "Or were, I guess."

"Dean, look at her," she answers incredulously, and yeah. "I really don't think it matters."

"Your mother is with the steward," Sappho says as she places the papers before Sempronia, and Dean doesn't think he's imagining the way Sempronia looks at her when she bends over, just a little too long (and if she's not, she _should_ ). "I could only read half, so I copied as best I could a sentence from each so you could identify it." She pulls up a stool as Sempronia picks up the first paper. "Where is Claudia?"

"Her treatment with Emet begins soon," Sempronia answers distractedly, looking down at the papers. "Etrurian, looks like one of those endless mystic ramblings of a very high ascetic, we've no shortage of those. Hebrew, that I expected: my grandfather was popular with the Jewish population of Rome, studied with several of their rabbis, I'll have that added that to your studies--Aramaic, Avestan, Persian, Nubian, Bantu--remind me to thank Germanica, her great-grandmother was of their most powerful tribe--and I'll need to check my references for this one. And this...." She scans the page quickly, murmuring to herself. "I wish I didn't know your penmanship flawless so I might ask if these are words or simply ink blots in random order." 

"It was on the scroll on the third frame," Sappho says, and he sees Sempronia's eyes sharpen as Sappho shifts uncomfortably in place.

" _Third_ frame?" Sempronia sits back. "I've only ever seen two."

"She added a third." Sappho hesitates. "I saw that scroll in her trunk. It came a few months ago, I think."

"How can you tell it is the same one?"

Sappho hesitates again. "Its case was made of iron with many locks, and the--material of the scroll is distinctive. I know not what it is, but I liked it not even rolled in her chest. Like fine leather, but not. Where it came from, I don't know."

"The answer to that is 'anywhere'; my mother's acquaintance is vast," Sempronia answers in exasperation, sitting back. "Alexandria isn't the only library in the world, only the largest. We'll need to check again; at least for those from Alexandria, the Librarian surely sent a reference we can use. Even my mother cannot learn a language from staring at it until it reveals its secrets to her will."

"I wouldn't put it past her," Sappho murmurs, which earns her a snort from Sempronia that he takes as agreement. "We have had no recent correspondence from Rome."

"I'm aware," Sempronia says with an acidic edge. "Not since their last very regretful refusal."

"On a guess," Dean says to his companion, "that's the Senate refusing to fix the _nefas_ thing."

"Yes," she agrees bleakly. "It won't be fixed, Dean. I tried, too, but even half a century after their deaths, the Senate held a grudge against the Gracchi. Caesar Pontifex Maximus meant to do it once he became Dictator, but he was assassinated before he could complete his work. I sometimes wonder...."

He waits, but she frowns into the distance. "What?"

"Caesar came from a long-lived patrician family, and his mind only sharpened with age. As to be expected: he was descended from the gods and they do love their own."

Now that's interesting. "What gods?"

"Venus, for one."

"You're telling me the greatest general in history was descended from the goddess of _love_?" Dean asks incredulously.

She grins at him. "One of your modern scribblers, I forget the name--did he not say all is fair in love and war?" He gives her a doubtful look (yeah, he knows the quote, fine). "Well, we certainly don't go to war for vague liking, Dean. Love of money, power, position, property, self--"

"Hating the other people?"

"Hatred is what you kill for," she answers, smile fading. "Love is what you die for. The first can get you on the field, but the second is the only thing that can keep you there."

"What are all of these?" Sappho asks, and reluctantly, Dean turns his attention back to the room. "I wrote what I saw, but understanding it....."

"It's not you," Sempronia answers wryly. "There are treatises on mysticism, mythology, philosophy, theology, natural law, the enlightenments of those taking questionable psychedelics...." She frowns. "The last time she was so obsessed...."

"Before your brother Gaius was murdered," Sappho says very softly, and Sempronia nods. "What did she do then?"

"Much as she does now; locked herself within her _tabilium_ with all of her books. Even Cardixa could not coax her to leave for more than the necessary," Sempronia answers. "She refused entrance to any for two nights and two days; I was on the brink of ordering the door broken open when she emerged, and she looked...." Sempronia meets Sappho's eyes. "She said only that Gaius was dead before retiring to her room with Cardixa."

"Before the messengers came?" Sempronia nods. "Has she the Sight?"

"No more than a touch, if that," Sempronia answers ruefully. "My mother is a true _Cornelia_ ; even a true Seeing of the end of the world could not distract them from their studies. No, it was something else, and to this day I know not what."

Sappho's eyes flicker over the scrolls on the table. "Did the servants mention anything unusual when they cleaned the _tabilium_ after she left? Do you remember?"

"The altar had a burnt offering," she answers with a shrug. "That means little: it was consecrated to no god and therefore to them all. I assumed it was for Gaius's safe return, but when they came to me for permission to dispose of it, I remember being surprised at how sparse the ashes."

"Were there markings on the altar?" 

Sempronia frowns, nodding slowly. "There were, yes. It needed a thorough cleansing: wax and streaks of soot," she answers, eyes narrowing. "Which was odd in itself. The soot--"

"Wasn't on the altar, but around it, like the wax," Sappho says unexpectedly, and Dean takes a step toward her, knowing exactly what she's thinking. "I know your memory excellent; can you remember what the markings looked like?"

"Of course." Taking a pen, Sempronia dips it in the ink, neatly scraping the excess on the side before turning over a scroll and making a quick sketch. "Something like this."

Sappho's mouth tightens before drawing a quick finger across the still-wet ink, smearing the lines, but Dean saw enough to recognize it. "Not a burnt offering: a summoning."

Sempronia stiffens. "Why would you think of that?"

At the sound of footsteps, Sappho jumps to her feet, and Sempronia quickly bundles up the papers into neat scrolls while Sappho seats herself among the book buckets at Sempronia's feet.

"I see you are industrious," Cornelia says in amusement from the door, and Dean watches as Sempronia casually hands over the newly made scrolls for Sappho to place in a half-empty bucket. "Dare I ask?"

"I was reviewing Sappho in her demotic Egyptian," Sempronia says as the last of the papers vanish into the bucket. Reaching for another scroll, she rolls it open. "Sappho, if you will: we found this one educational."

Sappho stands up gracefully and takes it as Cornelia seats herself on a low couch and looks at them attentively. "'Lo, he wept bitter tears at their parting, but his duty and desire were clear; the Swamp beckoned him like the most jealous of mistresses. Her rounded curves, vanishing into the slick depths, commanded his attention; her wide eyes demanded his presence; her wide mouth his obedience; her smooth, moon-ripe--'"

"Ripe?" Sempronia asks while Dean experiences something like existential horror. "Are you certain?"

"So it says," Sappho confirms, glancing down. "To continue: 'her smooth, moon-ripe flesh begged for the application of a gentle hand or perhaps--he dreamed--an inquisitive tongue to offer worship--'" She stops, widening her eyes innocently at Cornelia's expression. "My command is still faulty, but I do not think he's describing the true form of either god, godling, or Messenger, and I doubt they would take as vessel a--"

"Don't say it," Cornelia breathes, and Dean wonders glumly if they worked out what the fuck happened with him and Anael. God help him, he wishes he could ask. They could really use a second opinion. "Where did you find that?"

"Passing strange: in a hidden corner of the cubicle in which you store your clothing, _domina_ ," Sappho answers. "In a box surrounded by herbs to ward off evil." Cornelia's still lost in horror when Sappho turns her attention back to the scroll. "'He wades into the swamp, the water skimming up his well-formed thighs to his hips as if she drew him closer with her own...." Sappho frowns. "Trotters? Is that the word?"

"Close that, burn it, and bury it beneath the next new moon," Cornelia orders hoarsely. "And we shall never speak of this again." 

" _Domina_ , I do not mean to criticize such elevated text, but what--exactly--does he think he can do with a--"

Sempronia wheezes, head dropping into her arms on the table.

"Give me that," Cornelia orders, and hiding a smile, Sappho demurely crosses to her chair and hands it over. Cornelia glances at the text for a moment and shudders before rolling it shut. "It's a metaphor."

Sappho nods agreement. "Then I would like to ask, _domina_ : a metaphor for _what_?"

Dean spares a glance at Sempronia and grins; she has her head buried in her arms on the table and her shoulders are shaking. Much better than she was in Rome: he kind of thinks, from the way Cornelia looks at her, amused and annoyed and surprised pleasure all three, that she might be better than she's been in a while. Maybe years. 

"I don't know and care not to imagine," Cornelia says firmly. "On a different subject: we should expect Publius by midsummer. Inform the steward so that his suite is prepared and the cook sends to market so we may have the means to make his favorite dishes. Also, a suite for a guest."

Sempronia lifts her head, face still red, but Sappho gets in first with a wrinkled nose, saying, "Not another husband?"

"Ye gods," Cornelia mutters, motioning Sappho to a stool as Sempronia rises to join her mother on the low couch. "No, we shall not be charmed to misery by another one who counts Nia's dowry and the years I have left to live. Which are admittedly few."

"Such nonsense," Sappho states, frowning. "You are of excellent health and sound of limb: he may wait a score of years in vain."

Cornelia bites her lip and exchanges a look with Sempronia. "Be that as it may--"

"I have liked none of them," Sappho continues with a sense of injury. "Encroaching, forward, I would even call them crass in their unwelcome attentions. Certainly not worthy of Nia, whose great-grandfather conquered Carthage and should have done the same to Africa if but given a chance."

"Those native to the continent were content with their own rulers," Cornelia answers, straight faced. "We have contracted alliances with many of them, and it is rude indeed to declare war on friends and allies."

"They offer excellent trade and have armies that rival our own," Sempronia interprets sweetly. "A friend is but an enemy too strong to conquer, Sappho: remember it."

Cornelia sighs but doesn't correct her, and Sappho asks, "Would that be why these nobleman want to call you friend so very much they won't leave until your assurances are given?"

"Well done," Sempronia praises. "That would be it."

"You're both incorrigible," Cornelia says, then straightens, eyes flickering to the door, and it's not hard to guess where she wants to be. "I should return to my work."

Sempronia doesn’t lose her smile. "Your scholarly pursuits do consume you. Have you discovered anything of interest?"

"So far, little," she answers casually. Almost absently, her hand goes to her chest, rubbing lightly. "I think--"

"What did Emet say?" Sempronia asks abruptly.

Cornelia frowns. "About what?"

"When you told him of the tightness you are experiencing in your chest when you breathe."

Cornelia stiffens, meeting her daughter's eyes.

"You haven't told him." Drained of animation, Cornelia's face shows her age again. "Let me accompany you to do so."

"It's age, Sempronia," Cornelia says dismissively, reaching to cover Sempronia's hands with one of her own: the skin is parchment thin over the fine bones, bare of jewelry. "Even he cannot stop time, and I have very little left."

"Mater--"

"If I have two years, it will be more than I expect," Cornelia interrupts. "That should be time enough, I hope."

"For what?" Sempronia asks, and Cornelia looks away. "Mater?"

A light rapping interrupts them, and with a suppressed look of relief, Cornelia pulls away. "Come."

A tall woman appears, expression forbidding, and Dean recognizes her as the one that was carrying little Sempronia outside. "Nia refuses her dinner and insists on debating the matter."

"I will--" Sempronia starts.

"I will see to her," Cornelia says with a fond smile, rising to her feet.

"You mean spoil her," Sempronia says wryly, but the dark gaze is sharp.

"What else is a grandmother for?" She nods to Sappho when she starts to rise. "Continue your studies with Sempronia, child; I have no need of you. I'll be in my _tabilium_ after I see to Nia. Germanica's visit was very welcome, but I missed several days of study and I have much to do."

Sempronia waits until Cornelia leaves before turning her attention to the scrolls. As Sappho starts to gather them, Sempronia says abruptly, "Have you the Sight?" Sappho freezes, a scroll falling from abruptly limp fingers to roll against Sempronia's feet. "Why did you not tell me?"

"I do not understand--"

"Your Latin is impeccable," Sempronia interrupts, crouching to retrieve it. "You have nothing to fear; the Sight is given to many. It's epidemic in the old patrician families; the Fabia and Julia alone produce--Sappho?" Sappho's face is almost grey, eyes wide with the hunted look of a terrified animal. Sempronia's expression changes. "I never asked; your mother, had she your beauty? Do you remember?"

Sappho looks up, white lips trembling. "What?" Then, voice thready, "Far more so. She--she was called a siren by some."

"She must have fetched a very high price," Sempronia continues. "Surprising that you were separated when you were sold. A beautiful woman with a beautiful child would be an irresistible combination: easily triple the price. By now, she would have bought her freedom and become a famous courtesan; I wonder now that I never heard of her."

"She was not sold at auction," Sappho says roughly. "She was crucified with the men when the Romans came."

"Witchcraft, of course," Sempronia mutters in disgust. "That would be the only reason any Roman general would forego such a fortune as she would make for him. Superstitious _idiot_ : doubtless a provincial. They're all old women before they discard the _bulla_ of childhood, raised on stories of capricious crones spoiling milk and stealing manhood."

Color returns to Sappho's face. "How did you--"

"How you spoke of that scroll, for one. For another, you mentioned summoning and recognized the signs; that is impossible in Rome proper and nearly so in most of the provinces under our rule. Few if any who practice would even think of trying and so wouldn't know what to look for. You were your mother's apprentice, I assume? If you had the Sight, she would have started you early. She must have taught you of that."

Hands knotted in her lap, Sappho nods jerkily, eyes fixed on Sempronia in morbid fascination. "Yes, she--she did."

"A mother's duty, she did well there." Sempronia studies Sappho intently. "If I'd known, I would have reassured you before: no fault in you, Sappho, it's our duty to see to our dependents, and Mater hasn't the time. After that, you had good reason to remain silent on the subject, but know this; there's no reason to be afraid. It's rare to prosecute a witch, even in Rome proper, and there's certainly no evil in magic itself, only what it is purposed to do. You've lived here long enough to know that; we trade with the local practitioners regularly, and Emet is an Egyptian priest and practices as well in honor of his gods. What happened to your mother was unusual--and ridiculous--but--"

"You do not know it all," Sappho whispers, visibly bracing herself. "She sank the ships they would take."

"So superstitious sailors may have said--and a Roman general believed them? I feel unwell--but that doesn't make it true."

Sappho shakes her head. "What you described is a form of summoning, yes, but my mother's teaching was not the only reason I recognized it. My mother used something like it to call a--a being that wore a living human body as one does their own clothes and trapped its _animus_ within." Sempronia's eyes widen. "She traded her Self to it for the power to manipulate the realm of Father Neptune and cause ships to flounder so their men could take them." 

"You saw this with your own eyes?" Sempronia asks, coming closer. "How many summers had you?"

Sappho licks her lips, looking at Sempronia pleadingly. "Three. I lied to your mother when she asked my age; I had seen seven summers when the Romans came." Sempronia nods, expression unchanged. "The Sight--it came to me early. She had me confirm what she summoned was what she sought. I know not what it was--"

"Describe what you saw."

"It spoke as men and walked as men, but it was--it was unclean," Sappho whispers in revulsion. "It's face blackened and burned to char--and the brightness of the _animus_ was trapped within it, unable to escape."

"A demon," Sempronia spits. "In _Greece_ , no less: have the fools learned _nothing_? I would not have thought--but the coasts are not well mapped, and poverty leads to desperation. Demons are a match for any Roman lawyer when it comes to bending natural law; if a single crossroad was neglected...." She shakes her head, turning her attention back to Sappho. "You could _see_ it, within the body? And the _animus_ held captive?"

Sappho nods, horror stark on her face. Sempronia abruptly drops to her knees, careless of crumpling her skirts, and takes Sappho's hands in hers. 

"I do not hold you responsible for your mother's actions, child." Sappho's expression changes briefly, a flicker of--something--at 'child' that vanishes as Sempronia continues. "What your mother _did_ was an abomination, not what she _was_ , and you bear no responsibility for her actions at all. As for what you are--only you can decide that. Not your ancestry."

Sappho tries to smile "How--how un-Roman of you, Sempronia; you know ancestry is everything to a Roman."

"Germanica's great-grandfather was leader of his tribe and he allied with Rome against Carthage due to their aggression against his people; we called them barbarians, but that didn't make it true. He was a fearsome warrior, yes, but that was the least of what he was; he was a skilled general, a gifted statesman and orator, and a famous scholar, who did his duty bravely and with mercy and justice, a worthy son, father, protector, and leader. He and my grandfather were great friends and companions to their deaths; he and his children were granted the citizenship and climbed the _cursus honorium_ to the very consulship on the strength of their character and merits--"

"And a great deal of Cornelian money and influence," Sappho says, looking startled at herself. "Or so they say."

Sempronia grins. "What's more Roman than that? You met Germanica; she is everything a Roman noblewoman should be, no less than my mother. My husband was a Roman born of the most august lineage, patrician on both sides, a respected scholar and a great general, but he spent the lives of Roman men like water and betrayed his family and friends as suited his ambitions. He was not fit for the _Cornelii Germanicii_ to wipe their feet upon. Ancestry is to be respected, but only in those who prove worthy of it; otherwise, it is less than nothing."

Sappho searches Sempronia's face. "You're--you're not afraid?" 

"Of what?"

Sappho takes a deep breath. "Me."

"No, not at all." Sempronia wets her lips. "Of what my mother may be doing? Yes, especially if you're correct about what was on the altar. However, we can dismiss a successful summoning, at least; the Lares would never permit it here, especially this close to Rome."

"Demons are not the only thing one can summon," Sappho argues, her hands curling into Sempronia's. "The Lares have no power over beings greater than they."

Sempronia makes a face. "I don't say my mother would not attempt to summon a god--I can't think of a single reason she wouldn't if she could but find a way--but as she still lives and is not mad, I think we can safely say that it didn't work."

"What if it was something else?"

She stills, eyes fixed on Sappho.

"She knew of your brother's death almost as soon as it occurred, days before the messengers arrived from Rome, correct?" Sempronia nods. "You say she has not the Sight; how else would she have known? If your description of what was found in her room is accurate, there was a summoning, though of what, there's no way to know. Though as you say, she is alive and not mad, so we can console ourselves it was--probably--not a being of ill-intent."

Sempronia licks her lips. "You think she might be trying again?"

"If she was successful in summoning something--and survived it--that will always be a possibility," Sappho answers. "Who would not if they had some purpose that could fulfill? However, that is not what concerns me. When I told you my mother wrecked ships, you did not believe it; you did not think it was possible. When I told you of the demon, however--"

"Then I believed it; you told me how it could be done. The impossible is only what has not yet been accomplished. If there was a way around the Lares, she could find it....no." Sempronia shakes her head. "No, Sappho, she would not. My mother is not an ignorant Greek peasant who turned to monsters for succor. She is a Roman noblewoman, educated, enlightened; she knows there are things you do not do."

"I doubt my mother decided as a child she would turn to monsters to fulfill her purpose, much less become one herself. I don't think she knew she was a monster at all," Sappho answers, holding Sempronia's surprised eyes. "The land was salt-poisoned. Our fisherman could not compete with the Roman fishing industry with their hundreds of ships that would troll our waters and leave us little if anything to catch and no market not already saturated in which to sell it." Sempronia's cheeks flush with hot color. "She would wreck ships and drown the survivors--sailors and passengers: men, women, children, and babes in arms--so none could tell what they had seen. But she also went house to house in our village and those nearby to cure children of sickness without asking payment, she blessed the barren fields so we might some crops, poor as they were, and she wept at the graves of the dead. 

"When the Romans came, she hid me among the village children and told me that I was to say I had only four summers and that my mother was dead. When the Romans searched for me--for it was known she had a daughter with the Sight old enough to assist her, and I was to share her fate--none revealed me even under torture. They offered freedom, wealth, even citizenship to anyone who would speak; none would. A monster, yes, I do not deny it, but there was reason for it. Are Romans so different that they qualify as another kind of being entirely than man? Are their reasons better when they do evil?" She lowers her eyes with ostentatious submission. "Though how would I know the ways of the Roman great; I am but an ignorant Greek peasant--"

"I shan't live that down very soon," Sempronia murmurs ruefully, and Sappho looks up, eyebrows raised. "I beg your pardon, Sappho; what I said was cruel and spoken in ignorance. I was taught better than that. I _know_ better than that."

"Pardoned," Sappho says after a pregnant moment, mouth twitching, and Dean can't help but wonder if either of them have noticed they're still holding hands. "I do understand, Sempronia; I love her, too."

"I know." Sempronia takes a deep breath. "With the Senate so intractable, she certainly has reason enough to turn to other means of achieving her purpose. Educated, enlightened, and wealthy: she has the world to search to find what she seeks, buy whatever she finds of interest, and she can read and understand far too much of it. And who on earth will deny the great Cornelia Africana anything, book or work or scholar, she may want or even ask why she wants it?"

There's a brief silence that Dean assumes is both of them contemplating how the fuck to narrow down the options on what Cornelia's doing when it can literally be 'anything'.

"If I only knew what she was trying to accomplish," Sempronia says in frustration. "If it is to find a way to pay Charon for my brothers and Licinia--she can't think that would work."

"Why not?"

"All Romans are bound by our contracts with the gods from the moment of our birth or upon grant of citizenship until our deaths," Sempronia explains. "The terms are negotiable in some ways--we are Romans and we do love the law--but not in others. In our agreement with Charon, one who does not have a coin to pay cannot cross; the negotiation is the Pontifex Maximus can draw up the necessary contracts with the gods to pay for those who did not have a coin. No one else is authorized to do so, so it cannot be done."

"And gods won't break contract?"

"With men? Yes, of course, if they can. With those that worship them, they can't; our offering is our worship and they took it, thus they are bound. They agreed to the contract we made with them, for we are Romans and think the best of our gods, but--"

"We think the best of them but want a signed contract into perpetuity."

"Exactly," Sempronia says. "Thus they are double bound. To break the contract with Rome is to break faith with their worshippers as well; it's both or neither. The penalty for that--I am not a god so cannot know, but that one exists, I do."

Sappho nods slowly.

"She _could_ appeal to the other gods and beg for redress, of course--as Gaius did to Diana--for the relationship between gods is not something we can know. Perhaps one might speak to Charon on her behalf and gain their sympathy...."

"I am attempting to imagine your mother begging anyone for anything," Sappho says doubtfully. "I seem to lack imagination, for I cannot."

"I share your lack," Sempronia admits. "Nor can I imagine Charon comprehending such an esoteric concept as 'sympathy'." She frowns. "For that matter, to whom would she appeal? Those we share with the Greek are bound by that contract, and our old Roman gods as well--and I, for one, would avoid gaining their attention; they are _strange_. Magna Mater, perhaps...we contracted with her less than a hundred years ago, but she tends to prefer more dramatic events to show her power. Nor has she ever shown much interest in anyone other than the patrician _Claudii_ when it comes to petitioners."

"What of _Bona Dea_?" Sappho asks. "We make offerings to her and work in her gardens every turn of the season. Would she not help?"

"The Good Goddess?" Sappho's eyebrows rise at Sempronia's shock. "No."

"Why?"

Sempronia shifts uncomfortably, and glancing at his companion, Dean sees a similar expression.

"There are gods of men, and gods of women, and those that are for both," Sempronia begins carefully. " _Bona Dea_ is none of those. She is of and for women alone; she will have no truck with men, their gods, or their works. That's why her temple resides outside Rome's _pomerium_ even though it is tended by the Vestals; Rome is of men, its gods are of men, and no man can step foot within her demesne, nor participate or even be present during her rites. _Bona Dea_ would never act for any man in any of her aspects, no matter how august or beloved of women; she can't even see them. Men are not her purpose." She makes an impatient sound. "This brings us no closer to discovering what it is she is doing."

"Have you any idea of what exactly it is we buy from the local practitioners other than remedies for bugs, arthritis, and childhood illnesses?" Sappho asks suddenly. "Ritual magic requires supplies, and some are not the kind you can acquire with ease or without question. That might narrow the possibilities."

"Spices and herbs we cannot grow easily here. Emet goes to them for some of his needs," Sempronia answers, troubled. "The household would have noticed something unusual; they dote upon my mother and watch her health as closely as we do. That doesn't mean she couldn't find another way to contact them and get what she wants by other means."

"Then it might be time to resume my education in my mother's less-questionable craft," Sappho says, meeting Sempronia's approving eyes. "With my mistress's permission, of course; she would like me to...." She trails off, looking pained. "Why would a patrician Cornelia want her servant to learn from local witches?"

"She'd want someone skilled with herbs and simples," Sempronia says immediately. "She is elderly and her joints do poorly. For that matter, _my_ joints could use such assistance."

"Oh yes, you're decrepit indeed," Sappho snorts. "Or so your endless running after the children during Germanica's visit has contradicted utterly."

Sempronia smiles faintly before her expression melts into seriousness. "That scroll--you think it is more than the simply unpleasant ravings of those who are overly fond of questionable fungus?"

"I know not what that scroll is or its purpose," Sappho answers, "but it is unclean; to touch it makes my skin crawl and to even copy that much for you felt...wrong. Whatever it is, it is not fit to be read; the only thing it is fit for is consumption in Greek fire. The fact she hid it worries me, and I doubt it's simply embarrassment, like that hideous story of the boy and his obsession with hippo flesh as metaphor--" She stops at Sempronia's expression. "It's--not a metaphor?"

"I plan to find out," Sempronia says grimly, and at Sappho's horrified stare, adds defensively, "The text can't be worse than what I'm imagining."

"I would not gamble on that," Sappho says with a shudder. "I'll acquire it for you. Where will you keep it?"

"In my sleeping cubicle, in the locked copper chest. The key lies beneath it." Sempronia squeezes Sappho's hands one last time before getting to her feet. "I'll continue my research with what you gave me. Tomorrow, go the village and apprentice yourself to the most likely of those we trade with. We have several books on herb lore that may be of help; if they require an apprentice fee, tell me and I'll help you copy one to give them."

Sappho hesitates. "Your mother--you think she is ill?"

"I spoke to Emet of it already; he told me the same." Sempronia sighs. "Also not to worry; her health is otherwise excellent. The Cornelii and Julii have a propensity to totter off to the Senate well into their tenth decade."

"There is something else that worries you, however."

Sempronia slowly lowers herself onto a stool. "Her illness after Cardixa's death two year ago...Emet said exhaustion from nursing her was perhaps part of it, but now he thinks that she may have suffered a brainstorm. A small one," she adds quickly when Sappho pales. "Such things are not uncommon at my mother's age, and obviously she recovered well, but their effects are not always physical or obvious. It might explain why her studies began to consume her after she recovered; it could have induced a monomania. They tend to strengthen with time, not diminish, but the progress can be so slow there's no way to be certain. My mother has always been focused."

Sappho nods. "I have heard of such things. Those so affected must be watched to assure they continue to care for themselves and not lose themselves in their mania."

"I had hoped he was mistaken, but I trust your feelings on the nature of that scroll. That she would willingly have something like that in her possession could only mean her judgment has been affected. Which means I must--somehow--discover what it is and what use she has of it." Her eyes travel to the scrolls with a sour look. "Learn a few new languages, including one composed of evil ink blots, to try to divine the mind of the most intelligent woman Rome has ever produced: simple enough."

Sappho smiles. " _Domina_ did say you were the quickest of her children."

Sempronia snorts as she gets to her feet. "Nonsense: I have never been a great scholar. My understanding is no more than average--"

Sappho makes a disparaging sound. "Yes, yes, you are average in all ways and have never been pretty and your only attraction is your great name and astronomical dowry." Sempronia blinks slowly at Sappho as she rises. "Your mother says the same of herself, it's maddening; perhaps this is a defect of the brain in the _gens Cornelia_ that I am not aware of? Know thyself, it is said: you and your mother have not achieved even a passing acquaintance!"

Sempronia stares for a moment longer, blank-faced, before she starts to laugh, cheeks reddening and the wide brown eyes--Cornelia's eyes--filling with light. Sappho stills, watching her as if standing before a holy image, and Dean's got to wonder how the hell Sempronia can be missing the way Sappho looks at her (though how she missed what was going on during that massage is still up in the air).

"You are strange, Sappho," Sempronia says finally, wiping her eyes, and Sappho immediately arranges her expression to polite annoyance. "Can you finish this? I want to see Claudia; do you know what it is Emet recommended for her treatment? I understood it was simply an alteration in her diet to encourage her to eat, but she has not improved. She seemed afraid today."

"No, and those assigned to the duty don't speak of it, at least to me," she says. "When I offered my help, your mother said it was not fit for me."

Sempronia checks her step, frown deepening. "Interesting."

Dean looks at his companion. "What's she doing with Claudia? If she won't eat?"

She shrugs. "Let's go find out."

* * *

Finding Claudia's cubicle isn't easy; the villa is _huge_ and they lose sight of Sempronia a couple of times when servants get in the way. At the farthest end, they catch sight of Sempronia's skirts and follow her down to the very last door.

Sleep cubicles aren't very big in Roman homes, but this one seems a lot bigger, which is probably because there's almost no furniture except a narrow cot in the middle of the room, the head against the wall. The windowless walls are plain, unadorned plaster, the floor plain tile; the impression isn't a room you live in, but a room you never, ever want to.

A woman--Messina?--rises from the stool with a frightened obeisance as Sempronia approaches. Looking taken aback by the reaction, Sempronia waves her away and takes her place. "Little sister," she says, taking Claudia's hand, and Claudia opens her eyes, looking at Sempronia in confusion. 

"Why--" Claudia coughs, dry and harsh. "Why are you here?"

"I wish to help you--"

"No," Claudia says, faint, harsh color staining her face. "No, I will not have it. You must leave!"

"I would agree," Emet says from the doorway, stepping aside as two male servants bring in a table and another a bag, and Bithy brings up the rear, holding something like a glass flask, neck narrowing into a small, stoppered mouth. As the men start to empty the bag carefully, Bithy sets it on the table like she can't wait to get it out of her hands. "Sempronia, what are you doing here?"

"She is my sister," Sempronia says, gripping Claudia's hand.

"Please, Sempronia," Claudia whispers. "Please, leave me this much." Jerking her hand away, she rolls away, turning her back to Sempronia. "Emet, make her leave!"

Emet looks at her expressionlessly, then inclines his head to the door. "I would speak to you, Sempronia. The rest of you, continue in my absence."

Rising from the stool, Sempronia looks at Claudia, then nods, following Emet out of the room. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Your mother--"

"If she wished my exclusion, she should have told me herself," Sempronia interrupts. "Emet, please. She is my sister and she is in distress."

"You cannot help," he says finally. "But if you wish, I will allow you to observe. Only observe," he adds. "If I have your promise not to interrupt or interfere." 

"You have it," Sempronia says, turning to the door.

"It is not pleasant, Sempronia."

She pauses. "What kind of treatment is this? I understood it was a new diet."

"That is part of it. Sheep's milk mixed with three eggs, honey, and a cup of wine," he says. "Every third day, the cook adds one cup of finely chopped greens." Emet tilts his head toward the door. "If you are certain, we should begin."

"I am." Going back into the room, Sempronia looks around. "Where should I--?"

"There," he says, pointing to a corner of the room. Dean watches, baffled, as two of the men, Bithy, and Messina go to the bed while the third guy goes to stand by the table. Then Emet goes to the bed, seating himself on the stool. "Claudia," he says. "If you won't take nutrition willingly, we must do this. Will you--"

"No." The dark eyes open, no tears this time; they're the most alive part of her. "I won't."

Emet nods, reaching to press Claudia's hand. "I apologize," he whispers, and rises to his feet, gesturing sharply. Dean sees the one of the male servants is holding silk cords that he hands to Bithy.

At the foot of the cot, Messina reaches for Claudia's sheet-covered ankles and pulls her to the middle of the bed. Claudia tries to jerk away, but the man is already kneeling at the head of the bed and pins her shoulders down.

That's when Claudia comes to life and starts fighting.

Bithy kneels, catching Claudia's flailing right hand and tying it to the cot while the man on the other side does the same with her left, attaching them to hidden hooks beneath the frame. Then Bithy and the man both join Messina, the man quickly tying Claudia's ankles together as Bithy secures them as well on another hook. As fast as they are, it's still an effort; Claudia may be thin, but she can _fight_.

"What are they doing?" Dean asks (like someone's going to answer) as Emet approaches the cot, holding something he can't make out.

"Hold her head still," he says, and as the servant places a hand on her forehead, pinning her head to the thin mattress, Claudia sucks in a final breath and shuts her mouth tight, tears streaming from her eyes. "Claudia," Emet says softly. "Don't do this, please. Open your mouth."

She glares up at him: _fuck yourself_.

Emet nods at Bithy, and she goes to the left side of the cot and reaches over, pinching Claudia's nose closed. 

Sempronia takes a faltering step toward the bed, eyes wide with shock. "What are you--" 

"Not now, Sempronia," Emet says, watching Claudia. There's nothing but horrible silence; Claudia's face slowly reddens, but she won't open her mouth.

"How long...." Sempronia trails off, looking frozen.

"Until she loses consciousness," Emet says flatly.

It feels like hours that they stand there, watching Claudia grow redder and redder, her skeletal hands clenched into tight fists as they wait. Honest to God, Dean can't imagine she can keep that up. But she does, until she can't anymore; her eyes fall closed, body going limp, and immediately, Bithy opens her mouth and Emet puts what he was holding inside, fitting it over her teeth. When he draws back, Dean realizes it's some kind of bit to keep her mouth open.

"A reed," he says impatiently, extending a hand, and another man hands it to him; it's thin but long, at least two or three feet. Checking it quickly, Emet slides the tip between her lips before he starts to stroke her throat. Expression distant, he doesn't do anything for a long moment, then abruptly pushes what looks like a foot of it into her mouth.

"What the _fuck_ \--" Dean starts, but Sempronia's at the foot of the bed. "What are you _doing_?"

"I am inducing swallowing so the reed will not enter the airway," Emet answers coolly. "The bottle, now: we don't have much time."

Now Dean knows why the bottle has that weird narrow mouth; it's almost exactly the size of the opening of the reed, and using a small funnel, he pours the liquid into the reed and straight into her stomach. He also gets why it's made of glass; Emet watches carefully to keep the flow steady.

It's about half empty when Claudia stirs, and there's almost no transition; the sunken eyes open blearily before widening in horror, and she starts to struggle. Muffled screams issue from her mouth before she jerks her head back with a choking sound, triggering her own gag reflex, and white foam bubbles up around the reed.

"Turn her head," Emet says to Bithy, holding the reed steady and pausing the flow. "Claudia, we're almost done; less than a third remains. Messina, Bithy, hold her head still: we'll make this as quick as we can."

That third takes forever, even if it's only a few minutes; Claudia spits and gasps like she's being suffocated, and both men are needed to keep her on the bed, one sitting on her thighs with a hand on her chest to keep her still. 

Finally, the bottle's empty, and Emet efficiently slides the reed back out as Claudia chokes and gags, breaking it in half and then in quarters with surprising viciousness before handing it to a servant. "Dispose of this," he says, a flicker of revulsion in his voice. As he turns back, Claudia turns her head to vomit up a mouthful of bile and foamy milk directly into Emet's lap. Dean doesn't blame her, and from his expression, neither does Emet.

"No more," Emet says, nodding at Bithy, who puts a thick wooden stick between Claudia's lips. Dean wonders what horror comes next, but Emet simply removes the thing holding her mouth open and realizes it's to keep her from biting him while he takes it out: good call there. "If you expel any more, we have to do it again. Please, Claudia: be content with what you have won."

Claudia spits weakly, glaring at him, but she swallows hard and nods. Emet rises, gesturing, and the restraints are removed and Claudia lifted from the bed, soiled sheet discarded.

"Bathe her and see her to bed," Emet says to Bithy and Messina, both of whom look less shaken than they should be (as Dean is); they've done this before, more than once. "Come and get me when she's ready for sleep."

After Claudia is taken away, the other servants rapidly strip the cot, repack the bag, get the bottle, and leave. It belatedly occurs to Dean that Sempronia's still at the foot of the bed and hasn't moved; there's a suspicious glassiness to her eyes and though he can't be sure, he thinks she's breathing too fast, chest rising and falling in fast staccato.

Emet must see it as well; when the door shuts, Emet takes Sempronia by the arm and leads her to the bare cot, pushing her down on it before shoving her head down between her knees.

"Seven breaths, as we practiced," he says calmly, placing a hand on her back, fingers spreading across the ribs. "Inhale deeply, hold for three seconds, then release; I will count. Think of nothing but the numbers, Sempronia. One." There's a long pause. "Two."

In the same steady voice, he counts to seven and pauses, reaching to touch Sempronia's pulse. "Again, as we practiced. Inhale and hold for five seconds, then release; I will count. Think only of the numbers, Sempronia. One."

They go through seven breathes, then a third set with a seven second hold; at the end, Emet checks Sempronia's pulse and nods, hand moving from Sempronia's back. Slowly, she straightens, pale, mouth tight, but herself.

"I haven't had one of those in a long time," she rasps. "I thought they were--that they were gone."

"The mind is vast," Emet says quietly. "And ineffable. That they chase you still is no fault in you, as I told you before; it's a credit to you that you remembered what to do when they caught you."

She nods, swallowing hard, and some color returns to her face. "This would be why I was not told the details of Claudia's treatment."

"That is one reason," he answers obliquely. "Ask, Sempronia; there is no longer any reason for concealment."

"My--my mother ordered _that_ ," Sempronia says slowly. "She knows...."

"When Claudia began to sicken and reject food, your mother came to me and asked me what could be done," Emet answers. "I gave her the recipe for the drink you saw; even in her weakened state, Claudia could easily tolerate it, and it would keep her relatively healthy. She spoke to Claudia; if she did not eat, she must drink it each evening. At first, she allowed Bithy to feed it to her, if not with enthusiasm, with compliance, but eventually, she rejected it as well. Your mother asked me for options; this was the one she selected."

"You--you told her of _this_?"

"Yes, I explained the process and she witnessed the first two applications," Emet answers calmly. "At the beginning, it was not--like this. Claudia was apathetic during her feeding, but recently she has grown recalcitrant. As you saw."

"I cannot blame her," Sempronia says in revulsion. "You can this abuse _treatment_? Have you gone mad?"

"Generally, it's a short term solution to feeding a patient unable to care for themselves," Emet explains. "After a brainstorm or the apoplexy, when a patient suffers from the summer paralysis, or when they have sustained a brain injury that causes them to lapse into a coma, it is sometimes necessary. Either they recover their faculties well enough to care for themselves and we desist, or--"

"They die," Sempronia finishes for him. "How long is such a treatment generally administered?"

"A week," he answers. "Two at most. In very rare cases, when the patient is conscious but immobile or in great pain, we administer it for longer, but with syrup of poppies to keep them at peace and ease their passage from this life. It is not a treatment that can be maintained indefinitely."

"How long has she been fed like this?"

"Two months."

"Two _months_?" Sempronia shuts her eyes. "My mother has gone mad."

"Not mad," Emet corrects her. "Claudia is all she has of Tiberius Sempronius."

Sempronia opens her eyes. "How long can Claudia continue like this?"

"The recipe assures that she receives adequate nutrition," he answers. "The human body is not an equation to be solved with x and y, however; the _animus_ , as you call it, plays a part as well. She will weaken more, become subject to infection and disease--half a year," he interrupts himself, voice flat. "That is the longest I've administered it."

" _Why_?"

"The family insisted," he answers mechanically, the dark eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance, and Dean wonders exactly what he's remembering.

Sempronia sees it, too, and the calm mask of a Roman noblewoman falls into place. "I understand," she says, watching Emet carefully. "It could not have been easy for your patient."

"He had a brainstorm and did not recover. Despite our best efforts, ulcers developed from being immobile; they grew putrid and began to eat him alive," Emet answers tonelessly. "He could neither move nor speak, but his eyes--they screamed as one being tortured. Why should he not: that is what it was, and I his torturer."

Sempronia reaches out, covering the tightly clasped hands with her own. Startled, he looks at her as if he forgot she was there. With the doctor's professional calm stripped away, he looks startlingly young. "Tell me the rest." 

"I was very young," Emet whispers, and it occurs to Dean that Emet _is_ young: thirty, thirty-five at most; how the fuck old was he when they sent him to care for a guy with a stroke? Why? "I had just completed my training in the temple when I was assigned to their household. At least, that was the excuse the High Priest gave when I made a mistake in his sleeping draught."

"A mistake."

"I mixed his syrup of poppies with atropine at triple its maximum dose. He died in his sleep." He shakes himself, and Sempronia tactfully withdraws her hand as he resumes the practiced calm of a physician. "The family was not pleased. So I was sent to Greece and then Rome to continue my studies. Then I was assigned to the Ambassador's household." He smiles wryly. "I never thanked your mother for accepting me into her household; not even the High Priest could refuse a personal request from family of the Lord High Chamberlain for my services if I returned to Egypt, and the Ambassador could only do so much to keep me here." Sempronia sucks in a breath in understanding. "The needs of Cornelia Africana take precedence, of course, and so by King Ptolemy's order, here I stay as long as I am needed."

"You certainly belong with us," Sempronia says with a flickering smile. "We are all of us a household that defies the Senate of Rome before breakfast: inbred Macedonian aristocrats are _nothing_." Taking a breath, she looks down for a moment before meeting his gaze. "Claudia--she won't improve, will she?"

"Do not blame your mother, Sempronia; the fault was in me as well. I thought, given time, she would recover as she did before." Emet's shoulders bow. "There is no cure for _melancholia_ , only treatments, and we know not why or how they work, or even if they will. Claudia doesn't respond to any of them any longer; her condition continues to degrade, and I no longer believe there is hope for it to be arrested, not this time."

" _Why?_?" Sempronia bursts out, and Dean sees tears in her eyes. "Why--why _now_...." She trails off. "The Senate, their last refusal to order the Pontifex Maximus to pay Charon's fare. Is that the reason?"

"That was the trigger this time, yes--"

"When we returned to Misenum years ago, she was not well, but you were able to treat her and she improved so much! Why not this time?"

"Because it is not that simple." Emet scoots closer and reaches for her hands. "I have treated men with growths on their bodies that do nothing all their lives; in others, they become putrid and spread, killing them in a few short years or even months; still others, for decades they do nothing and then in a matter of weeks the growths spread and they die."

"What has that to do with--"

"The diseases of the mind are no different," he tells her. "Like a growth; like the disorder that causes bruising and exhaustion, that kills some and in others, simply eating sheep's liver can keep the patient healthy; like the summer illness that causes paralysis and death for some, yet others it leaves untouched: we can treat them to the best of our abilities, but _why_ eludes us. _Melancholia_ is no different; we cannot see it or the damage it causes, but it is no less a disease because of that, and the damage is just as deadly as any that can be seen. Like any disease, we can treat it, but that's all we can do. Sometimes, that is not enough."

"We love her," Sempronia whispers. "Can that--is that not enough to give her reason to live?"

Emet shakes his head. "If love were all that was required for a cure, no man would ever sicken, and we would claim an immortality the gods themselves would envy."

"What I saw in this room tonight was not love, but torture."

Emet squeezes Sempronia's hands before releasing them. "Love can affect judgement as well."

Sempronia is quiet for a long moment, the grief on her face almost painful to witness. Then she takes a deep breath, wiping away the tears as she meets Emet's eyes. "It is done."

"Sempronia?"

"It is done," Sempronia repeats, rising to her feet. "Claudia will not suffer this; I will not have it."

Emet rises as well. "Your mother--"

"I will speak to my mother," Sempronia answers, starting for the door before pausing to give Emet a tremulous smile. "Thank you, Emet."

"The gods be with you, Sempronia," he answers, following her from the room. "I'll be with Claudia if I'm needed."

Dean looks at her companion, relieved to see she's as shaken as he is. "Uh, you want to--"

"Oh yeah," she answers, and they both start at the door.

* * *

They only catch up to Sempronia about halfway to the _tabilium_ \--Christ, how big is this villa?--but she's not hard to follow this time, just follow the trail of baffled and startled servants staring in the right direction. Dean watches in admiration as people jump out of her path and even the furniture seems to step back; Sempronia marches through the villa like an invading army. A single glance sends the steward scrambling back several feet when he tries to stop her when Sempronia reaches the _tabilium_ , and she slams inside because _fuck doors_.

Cornelia looks up from contemplating something on her desk, blinking slowly at the sight of her daughter. "Sempronia, what--"

"Rescind the order to force feed Claudia," Sempronia states, coming to a stop a few feet from the desk. "Immediately."

Cornelia gets to her feet. "You don't understand--"

"I just watched my sister be tortured for an hour," she interrupts, and Cornelia drops back in her chair, face pale. "Do not tell me I don't understand. You will rescind the order and allow Claudia her choice."

"Or what?" Cornelia says quietly, and Dean feels a shiver run up his spine; the last time he heard her use that voice, it was giving Decumius his murder-orders.

"Tomorrow evening, I will be in Claudia's room," Sempronia answers, holding her mother's eyes. "I will block the bed. I will not allow them to touch her. If you want her fed, you will need to order the servants to remove me from that room and tie me down. If you don't want me in her room, you will need to imprison me. This will end, Mater; you will order it today."

Dean's close enough to see Sempronia's trembling, hands clenched behind her back to control their shaking as she pits herself against the will of the woman who scared the Senate of goddamn _Rome_. Senators on the rostra itself flinched when Cornelia looked at them like that; Sempronia just looks straight back.

"If I rescind the order," Cornelia says flatly, "she will die."

"All men die," Sempronia answers. "So will she. Her last memories will be of horror and pain and fear; how could they be otherwise? Let this end, Mater; let her last days be peaceful. Let her final memories be of her loving mother easing her passage and her sister at her side."

Cornelia's set expression doesn't change. "She won't take Charon's coin."

"She is of the Gracchi, daughter of Africana in all but blood; to take the coin would be beneath her. She will do as her sister did before her, and she will join Tiberius and Gaius and Licinia on the shores."

Cornelia seems to shrink. "She is my daughter," she whispers. "You would have me send her to madness among the shades?"

"How could she be content crossing to where Tiberius cannot go, where Licinia and Gaius are not?" Sempronia counters. "We might call it madness, but to her, that may be paradise. Let us send her with our love, and her memories of that love will sustain her shade in death the way it could not do in life." She wets her lips. "Please, Mater....let your daughter, let my sister go."

Cornelia doesn't answer, expression unchanged, but Dean can almost feel the slow give; maybe no one but Sempronia could convince her.

"When Scipio died, there were many suitors for your hand," Cornelia says abruptly. "I turned them all away."

"I had no wish for another marriage," Sempronia answers, looking confused. "I told you that."

"That was not the reason." Frowning, Sempronia takes the chair across the desk from her mother. "Though of course, that would have been reason enough, but it was convenient you agreed. I should have--I should have at least tried to change your mind."

"I had no wish for another husband," Sempronia repeats, an edge in her voice. "Mater--"

"Your father and I were in error when we contracted you to my brother's son," Cornelia continues. "A bright and intelligent girl has every advantage, but a brilliant one--other than your brothers, there were few men who could hope to match your mind and none who would not grow to envy it. Finding one superior was impossible--"

Sempronia's expression dissolves into shock.

"--but Scipio was a true Cornelian, or so I thought: a scholar who would see his wife as his partner in all things and encourage the development of her mind." Cornelia looks at her desk. "It was your father who told my _paterfamilias_ and my mother--much against their will--that I was to follow in my father's footsteps in scholarship after we were betrothed and my father died. On our marriage, he encouraged me to continue my education; whatever I wished to study, tutors were found and books acquired, philosophers and mathematicians and scientists and scholars invited to take residence with us. He bought a scribe who accompanied him on public business and went to both Senate and Committal meetings to transcribe proceedings for me. He could not take me with him when he traveled on public business, of course, but he wrote me daily when he was away and with those letters came his scribe's reports. And when his public service ended, his travels through the world included me."

Sempronia nods slowly.

"I thought Scipio would be the same," she says softly, but the ripple of anger in her voice makes the hair rise on the back of Dean's neck. "My brother adopted him as a man grown to give our name and pre-eminence, so I assumed he was of good character; my brother's judgment was obviously flawed. I corrected that mistake, but far too late, and that burden I will carry to my death."

From the look on Sempronia's face, this isn't something they've ever discussed. "I thought...I thought it was because of his role in Tiberius's death."

"It was," Cornelia agrees. "And it was for you. The first time he touched you in violence, his death was assured; if I'd known before--but that doesn't excuse me."

"I concealed it," she whispers.

"I am your mother; I should have _known_!" Cornelia swallows. "I knew he made you unhappy, however, and that should have been enough."

"It wasn't your fault," Sempronia says quietly. "You must know--"

"I know my daughter suffered," Cornelia answers. "And I could have stopped it. You returned to your brother's home so changed, so I brought you here, hoping--hoping that would help."

"It did."

"Not as much as I'd hoped," she says. "And you did loathe every physician that I brought to you."

"One wanted me to eat nothing but beans," Sempronia murmurs, looking pained. 

"Yes, he was an idiot," Cornelia agrees. "After Emet joined my household, however--I saw my daughter, the girl I raised, once again. You took up your studies, you became the mother little Sempronia lost, and you're a far better chatelaine of a household than I ever was. Claudia recovered from Licinia's death under his care as well, and I thought--" Her voice breaks. "I thought this time, he could do it again, if he just had time."

Getting up, Sempronia circles the desk and leans down to embrace her mother.

"I have few years left," Cornelia whispers. "Just--if Claudia could wait, we could go together, she and I. But that is selfish; as selfish as I was when I didn't encourage you to seek another, better man to make you a happy wife. Instead, I kept you with me, and tried to shelter you from all pain, and in doing that denied you any hope of a family of your own."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sempronia says against her mother's hair. "You _saved_ me. You denied me nothing; my family is here."

"You saved yourself," Cornelia says, pulling back to look at Sempronia. "Not all men--"

"It's not...." Sempronia hesitates, then shakes herself. "I had no desire for another husband, and I have never regretted that decision. I have no distaste for men in general due to his treatment of me; if I had, I would have married again just so as not to give Scipio the satisfaction of haunting me after his death, I promise you."

Cornelia chokes on a laugh. "Really, Sempronia."

"Exactly," she says, smiling at her mother. "As Scipio's wife, I met most of the eligible men in Rome, and if I'd ever met one to my taste, I would have perhaps....but there were none. I will not ever be a happy wife, but I am a happy daughter; would that content you?"

"I would be content," Cornelia says slowly, "if you are a happy woman."

"Then be content," Sempronia answers. "I am."

Cornelia swallows, veined hands clenched in her lap. "Claudia should have finished her bath; I will speak to her with Emet present. If she--it will be her decision, as is right."

Sempronia leans forward recklessly and hugs her mother with a choked sound. "Thank you."

Cornelia returns the embrace. "So--"

There's a knock at the door and the steward appears, looking harassed. "A messenger from Rome has arrived and insists on seeing you immediately. He said to tell you--" He makes a face. "'For remembrance'."

"I will see him," Cornelia says, standing up immediately, and Sempronia's expression darkens. "Have him sent to my _tabilium_ immediately." She smiles at her daughter. "Go to Claudia's room and tell Emet to wait for me."

"If you wish me to return--"

"There's no need," Cornelia says, still smiling. "Do order the cook to serve dinner in an hour, however; I'll see you then."

Sempronia nods slowly. "Very well."

* * *

As Cornelia puts away her papers, Dean takes the opportunity to check out the _tabilium_ and wonders if Cas would like something like this. It's at least three times the size of the one in Rome with two full walls of pigeonholes for books, some containing dozens of scrolls. Besides the huge, citrus-wood desk, the only other furniture is a long table scattered with scrolls, paper, pens, and ink wells, and three tall, narrow wooden frames before it, two of which hold paper. 

As Cornelia settles herself at her desk, Dean goes to look closer and realizes the frames are holding giant scrolls. There are handles at the top and bottom which he realizes are to wind or unwind the scroll in either direction. 

Then there's a discreet knock, and Cornelia straightens at her desk. "Come in."

The door opens to reveal two men: the steward in his immaculate tunic looking carefully non-judgmental of the guy with him, who looks like bathing isn't his thing and is accompanied by the faint but unmistakable smell of onions and garlic. 

" _Domina_ ," the steward says formally, bowing. "Lucius Decumius would like to beg an audience with you."

Decumius grins behind the steward's back, revealing a couple of missing teeth.

"Please come in, Decumius," she says before her gaze flickers to the steward. "You may leave us now."

The steward frowns, but reluctantly, he retreats, and as the door closes, Dean sees Decumius is carrying a large, densely-woven bag slung over his shoulder, the material well-oiled to protect it from the weather. Not waiting for Cornelia's nod, he comes to the desk, swinging the bag down on the polished surface, and removes a tall, wide earthenware cylinder and then a smaller one, setting both on the desk.

"More books?" Dean asks his companion, who shrugs, looking as baffled as he feels. The jars are plain enough, though now he can see the metal coating the bottom and stripes of banding up to the metal lids, sealed with wax and secured with dozens of metal-chased leather straps.

"Open it," Cornelia says. The man's grin widens wolfishly, unfastening the straps in seconds before turning the lid free and reaching inside, taking out a rounded grey--

"Jesus Christ!" Dean stares into dull eyes set in a grey-skinned face that drips fluid, held aloft by a handful of sparse hair. "What the _fuck_?"

"Natron solution," his companion answers. "He must have gone to Egypt for it; no one in the world can reproduce their method when it comes to preservation."

"Why the fuck would you want to preserve...." Dean's eyes travel down to the neck and stop at the sight of sliced grey tendons and neatly sawn bone. "That's--that's someone's actual head? Someone's _preserved head_?"

She looks at him curiously. "What did you think it was?"

How the hell do you answer that? Up to now, there's been a real lack of preserved heads in his life and God does he wish that were still true.

Getting up, Cornelia circles the desk and Decumius raises the head enough to be level with her own. "They say Opimius displayed my son's head before his murderers. It is fitting he should experience that as well."

Opimius: the consul that killed her son and all those other Romans. "How did she get him in Rome?"

"He was accused of taking bribes from foreign kings," his companion answers. "He went into voluntary exile before it could go to trial."

Dean looks at her, hearing the unspoken. "This time, he was going to be convicted."

" _Maiestas_ , treason against the State," she agrees. "The penalty: stripped of his citizenship, flogged, and publicly executed, his fortune confiscated, he and his family rendered _nefas_ and left destitute, and his descendants unable to stand for office."

Cornelia didn't fuck around when it came to revenge. "Like Gaius."

"His fortune still goes to the state and he lost his citizenship _in absentia_ , but he was able to transfer most of his fortune to his sons, provide dowries for his daughters, and settle enough on his wife that she wouldn't be dependent on her dowry alone," she answers. "And see himself comfortable beyond Cornelia's reach, of course."

Despite himself, his eyes are drawn back to Opimius. "Where was he?"

"Dyrrachium," she says absently, then frowns for a minute. "I think you call it Albania now. All you need is a Grania ship and a map: he wasn't good at this, no."

Cornelia reaches out, prying apart the rubbery grey lips, and her mouth curves in a slow smile. "His tongue?"

"Here," Decumius says, patting the other container with his free hand. "Ripped it out myself while he screamed for mercy; no coin for Charon will ever lie beneath it."

Cornelia meets his eyes, dark eyes alight with something Dean doesn't want to identify. "Well done."

Dean shivers.

"Seal it again and then follow me," she says, and in a few movements, the horror is back in its jar. Picking up both jars, Decumius follows her behind the desk to a door Dean didn't notice before. Lighting a lamp, Cornelia raises it as she reaches for the door, and in the brighter light, Dean catches a glimpse of the frame; carved into the soft wood is a doubled set of symbols, shallow enough that even in daylight you probably couldn't see them unless the light hit them just right.

"What's that?" his companion asks. 

He can't make them all out, but he recognizes enough of them to make a good guess, and the pattern is unmistakable. That's not just warding, not with a doubled line and those symbols; what's in there isn't supposed to get out. "Containment."

He starts toward them and belatedly realizes he can't; glancing at the floor, he tries again, but it's like there's more floor with every step he takes. Cornelia opens the door and goes inside, Decumius on her heels, but despite the lamp, the darkness swallows them both almost immediately. 

"What the hell...." He looks at his companion, who looks just as baffled as he feels. "What's going on?"

Before she can answer, she stills, and they both turn to the door. Something vaguely familiar lingers in the doorway, something that oozes around the symbols hungrily, searching for a single flaw. Dean hopes to God Cornelia knew what she was doing when she drew that; whatever that is, it shouldn't even exist, much less get out. 

"Dean?" she whispers, uncertain. "What is that?"

The door abruptly shuts, and it's gone; that answers one question and opens up about a thousand more. Shaking his head at her question, he turns to search the room, concentrating; you can't fuck around with shit that feels like that without--

"Contamination," he murmurs, focusing on the third frame, currently empty. "There we go."

She follows his gaze and Dean just stops himself from grabbing her as she starts toward it If that's where that scroll was hanging, Sappho was right about it, and _how_.

"It was here," she says, glancing at him for his nod. Turning around in a flurry of skirts, she surveys the table. "Where's the translation?"

Going to the table, he glances over the scrolls and focuses on the parchment still stretched almost flat and freshly sanded, like it's been worked on recently. He scans the page, not particularly surprised that it's mostly nonsense, entire phrases crossed out, corrections and counter-corrections beneath. He catalogues the other scrolls: Sanskrit, Pārsa, goddamn pre-Babylonian _Akkadian_ , that shit was old when Hammurabi came to the throne. Religious texts, crazy mystics, natural law, what looks like a few 'shroom trips gone wrong as fuck, and this is just the stuff she's working with _right now_. She's barely bothering to translate any of it; from her notes, she can read it as easily as the tongue of her birth.

Looking at the empty frame again, he thinks of those weird not-ink-splotches and of tinder: just enough to fill the center of your palm, left beside each body. 

"For remembrance," he breathes. "She was marking them."

"Dean?"

"She hasn't got it," he tells her, scanning the scrolls again just to be sure. Not yet, anyway, but something tells him that's gonna change.

His companion's shoulders slump. " _Ecastor._ All this time, and--then _when_?"

"Why do you want the translation?" Her eyes meet his, and suddenly, he gets it. "You know what she was trying to do."

"What she _did_ do," she answers impatiently. "That scroll may tell me--"

"How she did it? Why the hell do you want to know...." She wets her lips, dropping her eyes, and yeah, he's an idiot. "This is what you've been looking for."

"Dean, you don't understand--"

"Okay, this time, I'll play," he says, leaning back against the table and crossing his arms. "Help me understand."

"We can't win."

"We haven't even--"

"Spare me your platitudes," she interrupts. "The Misborn patrol the shores in the Morningstar's name; they terrorize the shades; their numbers are vast and will grow greater--"

"Wait--there's more of them? How? Lucifer's still breeding them?" He isn't sure where to rate this on the horror scale; Cynothoglys buried in pieces in a pocket of time or unburied to be raped to have more. 

"No," she whispers. "They're attempting to breed themselves."

He's gonna need a new scale. "They can do that?" Though come to think of it, why not? "You said they're _dead_ , so how--?"

"Don't you understand?" she says impatiently. "The Morningstar bred them of _gods_. The degenerate offspring of a daughter of Ether and the hybrid sons of Cerberus were sent to where the dead _live_."

Abruptly, the _tabilium_ vanishes into a darkness so deep it feels endless. Faintly, he thinks he can hear the sound of rushing water and looking down, he can make out barren ground, or at least, something like ground. As his eyes adjust, he takes in the vast twilight landscape, featureless and flat, broken only by a faint but steady descent in the same direction as the sound of water. There's suggestion of motion in the near distance: not the Misborn, he realizes after a frozen moment. A crowd--a huge crowd, spanning in either direction into infinity--is gathered, and he can just make out individuals among them, drifting like leaves on the wind, without purpose. In a break between them, he glimpses a massive churning grey breaking white against the outline of rocks: the River Styx.

"The shades," he whispers; those who had no coin to buy passage from Charon on the Barge of the Dead and thus condemned to madness on the very shores of the River. He can see faces now, blurry and indistinct: some blank as a new sheet of paper, others frozen in a rictus of remembered horror or pain or grief, ragged tunics and dresses drifting on a non-existent breeze. 

"Come with me," his companion says, and helpless, Dean follows her over the endless flatness, not even a rock to kick or dust to rise at each footstep, no footprints to show their passage, and there's no sound, none at all. Looking back, he can still see the shades wandering, hopeless and helpless; somewhere in there are Gaius and Tiberius Gracchus, Licinia and Claudia; he wonders if he'd recognize them if he saw them. He wonders if he even wants to.

"Here," she says, grabbing his arm, and he stares dizzily down into a massive pit. He stares into it, unable to look away; a floor of gnawed bones and rotting flesh but worse is those still moving, wearing the living, rotting flesh of dogs and people both, squirming like maggots with human faces twisted into animal snarls, canine faces that gleam with intelligence, attacking each other with claws and fingernails and sharp canines and blunt human teeth. Screaming and shrieks fill his ears; they copulate in pools of blood on the mangled bodies of their own, groups of half-baby, half-puppy corpses consumed by their own dams and sires....God.

"Lucifer just let them go knowing...." Then stops, remembering who he's talking about here. "He didn't know."

"Or care--"

"No, he didn't _know_." How many ways is Lucifer going to accidentally fuck up his own almost-victory? Holes in reality and monsters who can't die, can't be killed (by them, anyway), _eat gods_ , and now may be able to breed: what the fuck is next? "You said they're attempting; they haven't pulled it off yet?"

"Half of each litter are stillborn; the remainder don't survive long after birth," she says dully. "The first litters were miscarried within days. They have become more discriminate in their breeding and do not repeat pairings that fail." She meets his eyes. "They are not animals, Dean; they're born of the divine and they know exactly what they do. Their numbers are vast; it's only a matter of time before they find a pairing that produces viable offspring. Once they identify it...."

Dean jerks around at a faint, thready sound behind them, his companion with him, and on the shores, there's suddenly a lot of movement. Without thinking, he starts toward it, and to his surprise, she's beside him. Halfway there, they both start running; something's happening and it's not good.

This close, he can make them all out, and the faces aren't blank anymore; they're all filled with mindless terror. "What's going on?" he asks, scanning the area and seeing nothing. It's only when his foot slides that he looks down into churning grey and realizes he's on the shores of the River itself. The shades are inches away, but they can't seem to get any closer, scrambling mechanically in the dry dirt like an invisible wall is holding them back. 

No coin for Charon, he reminds himself bitterly; the shades aren't even allowed to fucking try and swim their way to sanity. What the fuck did Charon need money for, anyway? Not like they were saving up to build a fucking bridge.

"Dean!" his companion shouts, and Dean turns around. Following her gaze, he looks up, up, and up at--

"Christ," he whispers, mouth dry.

It's like a mastiff, if they came fifty feet high and their skin was made of living, squirming maggots and their bones of rotting stone. The head's a bare skull ribboned in grey-white strips of ragged flesh like tattered bandages, every inch of it squirming between thousands of tiny black eyes like a mass of dead beetles, dull and swiveling to and fro in constant, nauseating motion. Swallowing back bile, he watches the ragged mouth gape open in a horrible, shrieking laugh, revealing a cavern of jagged teeth that go on forever, breath puffing out in a noxious yellow mist with acrid smell of rotting, half-digested meat.

This is what Cynothoglys was tortured and raped to make; there's no word for them but obscene.

Looking around, Dean catches his breath; there are dozens of them--hundreds of them--crowding the shades back and back toward the River until they can't go any farther. He's shoved against his companion, the shades hemming them both in their numbers and their drowning, endless, mindless fear. He wants to run but his legs won't move; he can't do anything but stare into that horrible face and be terrified.

From the corner of his eyes, he has the impression of movement, and just manages to turn his head in time to see an indistinct figure drift out of the mass of shades. Slowly, it resolves into a guy in a ragged tunic and the toga of a Roman citizen, gone from white to a dingy grey. The massive heads of the Misborn slowly turn to see him, another hideous mouth gaping open beneath the first and peeling back to reveal another endless field of teeth. 

A second figure drifts over to join him; a woman, he thinks, colorless hair flowing down her back and a suggestion of tattered skirts forming to brush just above where her ankles might be. The Misborn grin with all their terrible mouths, a low, almost subliminal growl raising the hair on the back of his neck, and if he could talk--if he could think, if he could move, if he could even _breathe_ \--he would tell them not to move, to get away, to fucking _run_ and never stop.

Helpless, he watches three of the Misborn pad toward them, every claw-footed step shaking the world like a rag doll, sending Dean, his companion, and most of the shades tumbling to the ground. Not those two, though; they just stand there like crazy people--shades, whatever--so small compared to those massive paws, those carbon-black claws, those gaping mouths. The Misborn could swallow them whole screaming and never notice a thing. Staring into that horror, they reach out thin wisps of arms to each other, hands clasping. Then they break, spinning around to run straight for the banks of the River. 

In a nerve-shattering chorus of delighted screams, the Misborn give chase.

"No!" Dean's companion struggles to her feet, pushing immobile shades out of her way as she stumbles toward them, her dress and jewelry melting away with every step for worn jeans, a flannel he thinks he recognizes as his (Cas's), Alicia's boots, brown hair twisted into Amanda's severely coiled braid. He wonders if he should be surprised; this is what they do when they see monsters, after all.

Somehow, he drags himself to his feet, but that doesn't make it any easier; each step is an effort, more than the one before, the shades are like moving through cobwebs made of gum, and terror tries to freeze him every time he thinks of the Misborn. 

_One more step_ he tells himself each time his foot touches the ground, thinking of Vera going back to the cabin from the practice field under the eyes of the monsters who tried to kill her, Cornelia walking the Forum knowing the monsters who killed her sons watched her every step, then Wendy, walking forever to their Headquarters with that message against the power of the monster in her own goddamn mind. This is _nothing_. _Just. One. More. Step._

The Misborn give a triumphant howl, and Dean sees his companion's sword flash out. He doesn't have a weapon; fuck, he doesn't even know how the hell he's gonna fight them, but Amanda was right; they don't do this alone. Fuck this bullshit, he can move, he's got to; he can fucking _run_. 

"Stop!" he shouts at her, but she ignores him, eyes on the runners. The other shades are shoved aside by their progress, revealing the banks and the massive, churning river, so long and wide that it seems to go on forever, draped in an eerie mist as thick as soup. The Misborn are fucking _fast_ ; both are almost on top of the running shades, and with another howl they pounce, the two shades vanishing from sight. 

"No!" his companion shouts, and Dean takes two more steps before lunging desperately, bringing her down before she gets herself killed (or whatever the fuck happens to you here). "No," she chokes, spitting out dirt and shoving him off as she clambers to her knees. "They can't, they have _no right_ \--"

The Misborns' howling loses some of the triumph, and Dean looks up in time to see them skid down the muddy bank, splashing into the water from their own momentum. Just short of the banks, first Skirt and then Toga push themselves upright from the ground, watching the River intently as the Misborn flounder farther from the bank. Belatedly, he grabs his companion's arm (the one with the sword, he's not stupid), but she doesn't move, staring at the Misborn. The mist thickens, the water starting to swirl around them, and for all their paddling, they aren't going anywhere. 

He thinks he's seeing things at first, a thin ribbon of orange that vanishes into the churning grey, but there's another one, then another. They grow wider, like someone dumped orange dye in the water in long stripes. Paddling more frantically, the Misborn yelp in surprise when one of those ribbons brushes against them, trying to get away, but there are too many of them. More yelps, their padding becoming flailing as puffs of something grey-black fall into the water. It takes a moment for him to work out what's going on, but as they twist around, he sees one long orange water-ribbon brush along its back and opens it to bare, charred bone.

"What the hell...."

More wide ribbons of red-orange lace through the water and tip each current as the churning increases, fat red-gold bubbles rising lazily around them and breaking on the surface in spouts like boiling water. The Misborns' yelps become discordant shrieks, their massive heads catching on fire when an orange-laced wave breaks against them, turning it into half-char. Paddling desperately, hey turn their thousand eyes upstream and abruptly stop struggling, like they're frozen in place. Following their gaze, he watches in shock as the River's red-ribboned swells grow into a wave of pure red-orange, the leading edge of a river of fire

"Phlegethon," he breathes, startled. He was Styx's lover and killed her with his flames. His pain and grief and loss threatened to consume the Underworld, so it was confined within the banks of the river that also bore his name. They were reunited when Hades allowed Styx's river to flow through and mingle with his, but it came with a price, or maybe Hades' idea of a joke. As long as they flow together, she consumed him as he did her, and he'd destroy her again if they mingled for too long. At the very last moment, he had to veer away, and into Tartarus itself he emptied his horror and rage. " _How_?"

"We are the heirs of Charon," she says, her voice thrumming with a hundred, a thousand, a million voices. "The Five Rivers are our domain. We deny them; we reject them. This is our will, and it will be _done_."

The wave slams over the Misborn in drowning orange flames, pouring greedily down each of their screaming mouths and bursting out of their skeletal bellies, crumbling bone to grey ash. More waves follow, battering their dissolving forms until they vanish beneath the water entirely.

Then it's over: the red-orange ribbons thin, looping playfully through the emerging grey currents and vanish into the distance. The river swells once more in a single grey wave that deposits char-black shapes on the rocky banks. Crawling free of the water on shaking, skeletal legs, their mouths gape open to howl, revealing all those many teeth again. 

As it turns out, that's a lot more impressive when you're like fifty feet tall and not the size of the average purse-dog.

"You're kidding," he breathes, a hysterical laugh dragging itself from his throat. They shriek again like a couple of pissed-off Chihuahuas, and he's almost embarrassed for them. He also wants to dropkick them so badly his foot is itching for it; how the shades are resisting is the real mystery here.

Skirt and Toga both climb to their feet, looking down at the Misborn like the drop-kick solution is on the table as of right now. The howling trails off as the Misborn realize just how close they are to human foot-size and suddenly begin to yelp, running frantically for their larger brethren to cower bravely behind their massive legs before starting that horrible (purse-dog) shrieking again. Turning around, Skirt paces toward the larger Misborn before coming to a stop, tilting her head as she looks up at them. He wonders if she's gotten taller or something; right now, it's almost like she's looking them right in the eye.

Then she smiles and crooks a finger: _come and get me._

Dean's companion tries to shake off his grip on her arm, which isn't happening. "What is she _doing_?"

He spares her an incredulous glance. "Seriously?"

"Shades are only a forgotten memory of who they were," she says impatiently. "All that's left is madness."

Skirt's smile widens as she regards the unmoving Misborn, and she starts to laugh.

The joyous sound winds down the infinite banks of the River and curls through the masses of shades like the first breeze of a new spring, warm and sweet. It's dawn breaking after the longest, darkest night of your life, bright and new; it's the taste of pie and fresh coffee and cheeseburgers and steak when you're starving; it's cold water after a walk through an infinite desert when you've forgotten everything but thirst; it's falling in love and breaking your heart and doing it all again, right from the start; it's the grief you learn to live with and live beyond; it's when the pain finally starts to end and you're still there; it's eating dirt and then standing back up, every time.

It's the wounds that finally heal, the scars you wear, the memories you won't give up, the dreams you won't lose, the promises you made, the proof that you didn't just survive, you lived. It's the thousand people you were and are and might be and could become. It's running full-speed straight to the edge because that's what you do when you see a cliff; you fucking _jump_.

To the shades who've known nothing but their own forgotten pain for eons, in a barren wasteland gutted of everything, even the memory of hope, it's a revelation. This is not all there is; _we are more_.

And then, the River joins her.

Tucked into each current and each lap against the shores, the laughter grows louder, merriment and mockery and challenge all three; soon, it's the only thing he can hear. As one, the Misborn jerk, and he realizes what they're hearing is Charon's laughter. They stepped from the Barge they lit with their own hands to face Lucifer, his followers, and his abominations on this side of the River Styx, placing themselves in front of the terrified shades, and waited. The Misborn howled in triumph, unleashed and hungry for the taste of another god; they almost upon Charon when they ceded their domain and their power in full to Elysium, denying even themselves the right to cross again. They laughed as the Misborn began to eat them alive, laughed as River denied Lucifer's claim and refused him passage, laughed as he stood as helpless as any shade just short of the muddy banks, unable to cross.

They laughed when Lucifer finally killed them: _I win._

Still laughing, Skirt dances backward, more substantial now, more like a person and not just the memory of one. It's like watching a movie going from black and white to color, like the sun coming out from behind a galaxy of clouds: golden skin that pinks across her high cheekbones, the colorless curtain of hair becoming a bright fall of gold, and eyes like the sky in summer meet his for a breathless moment.

He feels himself smile helplessly: talk about a face to launch a thousand ships.

One eyebrow arches in amusement before she twirls away, skirt swirling around her. Toga takes her hand, their fingers lacing together as their eyes meet for a look as intimate as a kiss, before darting together into the masses of shades, vanishing like smoke. 

As the laughter fades into silence, the Misborn don't move, their thousands and thousands of eyes searching the banks warily. They eat gods for breakfast (lunch, dinner, dessert, and midnight snack), but a couple of shades own their asses (the River helped, fine), and suddenly, terrorizing them just isn't fun anymore. Slowly, one by one, the mammoth feet begin to retreat, massive heads turning constantly to survey the cowering shades. Just in case those scary shades want to laugh at them again.

Or...mostly cowering. As the masses begin to move again, their figures growing less distinct as they lose themselves again in their own pain, a few stay apart, unmoving, eyes fixed on the ground. Following their gaze, Dean sees the outline of bare feet in the featureless ground where she danced, and in each step is a burst of brilliant green, fragile blades of grass pushing up through the dust and spring leaves folding open to taste the air, buds opening in shocking blues and pinks. Almost instantly, they begin to wither, dying brown crumbling to grey ash before his eyes, and the ground smooths them away until even the footprints are gone, unmade, as if they'd never been, a barren wasteland once again.

For a moment, though, it wasn't; for that moment, it was more.

"You see now?" his companion says in a choked voice, sheathing her sword and jerking away from him. "Do you understand the danger we're in?"

"They can't cross the River," Dean says, tearing his gaze from the featureless ground and wondering if he imagined it.

"The River unmakes them, but it won't last. Soon, there will be more of them; they will breed until they can cross the Rivers on the bodies of their own dissolving brethren that will clog it; they'll invade the realms of the dead one by one--" She stops short, eyes drifting over the masses of shades around them, like she's trying to figure out how to gather them all up and stuff them somewhere else, somewhere safe. She turns back to look at him, eyes tear-bright. "I have to save them, don't you understand?"

"I know," he says, wondering how far along that Barge is, though how she'll get the Rivers to let them pass is a mystery. If she could have done it, he's pretty sure she'd be swimming them over on her back if she had to. He could help with that, come to think; he knows how to swim, after all.

"Do you?" she asks softly. "Tell me this, Dean Winchester; how long do you think the Underworld alone will satisfy them? How long until they've invaded all the realms of the dead and grow bored with hunting us?" She takes a step toward him, and he just stops himself from backing away. "Then where will they go?"

He swallows. "They'll use the Door."

"The living are no more their natural prey than the dead," she says. "But you'll add variety to palates jaded by such monotonous fare--"

"Stop it." If they're all able to exist on earth.... "The Door, if you close it--"

"We have no rights to the shores nor the Door," she interrupts. "If it were that easy, do you think I'd be _here_? Do you think I would search Cornelia Africana's memories for what I need? Only a god can command the Underworld's obedience; the Misborn could be cast to the deepest of pits of Tartarus and sealed within with a word."

"If the god isn't eaten first!" Dean retorts. "If it were that easy, don't you think one of 'em would have done it instead of running, dying, or joining up?"

"I won't make their mistakes."

The thing is, she might be right, and that would probably be worse. "You felt what was in that room," he tries. "Whatever it was, she got it from that scroll. You can't think anything worth having can come from that!"

"If I can save us with it," she answers, straightening her shoulders, like when he asked her what was in her sword, "I don't care."

This is what we do, Dean realizes sickly; this is what we _are_. We crawl out of the filth and pretend we're better, but first chance we get, we crawl right back in, eyes wide open. The road to hell is paved with every lie you ever told to justify what you do; you don't sell your soul for anything or anyone but yourself. The only true thing is exactly what she said, the reason we do it; we don't care.

"Then who's going to save us from you?"

She takes a step back like he slapped her. "I wouldn't--"

"You sure about that?" He snaps his fingers, and the _tabilium_ unfolds around them again. Not like it was, though; the angles are all wrong, the shadows darkening, deepening, curving more deeply around the table, that third, empty frame. "Sweetheart, you have no idea, do you?"

"How did you...." Her head jerks around to look at the closed door, hand dropping to the hilt of her sword. "Do you hear that?"

"Always." Her gaze snaps back to him as he strolls toward her, eyes widening. "Do you like it?" She tries to retreat and comes up against the newly formed _tabilium_ wall. Bracing his hand against the smooth plaster above her head, he smiles down at her. "Do you?"

Revulsion fills her voice as she answers, "No."

"Don't worry." He leans closer, breathing his next words into her ear. "The way you're going, you will."

She stiffens, and Dean has just enough time to wonder if he's going to get a sword in the belly before she shoves him backward. Stumbling, Dean falls. And falls. And _falls_.

* * *

Opening the door to their room, Dean glances inside, but Cas is already asleep, half-sprawled against his pillow like he was too tired to finish laying down before he fell asleep. Shutting the door carefully, he fights the urge to stare at him (be a creepster), but he's gotta figure out how it works that a billion millennia old angel in a thirty-forty something year old body (with stubble, no less) can look so goddamn young. 

He didn't actually need additional guilt, but the sight of the prescription bottle on the crate by their bed offers it anyway; picking it up, he reads 'Alprazolam' written in marker over the faded label in Vera's painfully neat script. There's also a candle burning merrily on the bedside crate, the protective glass revealing rich ripples of varying shades of blue and green that smells like early spring.

Shedding his coat, he hesitates before crossing to the balcony door, the curtain pushed back just enough to reveal a glimpse of Ichabod. He eases open the door just enough to slip outside. If he wasn't awake before--and he was--the biting cold would do the trick, and so would the memory of the thin rope that Kamal found up here. Cas, as it turns out, isn't sure about thirty feet and Dean's not sure exactly how many years of his life he lost just thinking about what would have happened if that rope broke. It feels like another life.

The memory of Joe's face flashes through his mind, freeze-frame locked on shock and horror followed by disgust as he walked to the mess. It's like the last few month made Joe forget what Chitaqua really was; it wasn't about saving the world, Christ. It was just another Winchester family tradition, passed down father to son to an entire camp of hunters, that revenge is a life you live, the only victory that counts.

Dean takes in the spread of Ichabod at night, the line of the wall disappearing into an endless, roiling darkness. The darkness starts to spread across the horizon, parting for glimpses of a jagged red sky, and beneath him, the screams are just beginning; it's like music.

This is what we do; this is what we _are_ ; this is what I _am_.

"No." He tries to force his fisted hand open against the icy stone of the balcony, swallowing back the shock of pain that imbeds itself in his shoulder like a knife, twisting relentlessly with every stuttered breath. That makes the screaming louder, the only thing he can hear, each voice distinct: Grant, Beretta, Beard, Remington, Bushmaster, Micah, _do you hear it? That's gonna be you_ and so many more, more than he can ever count. He stares at the rusty gleam of the knife in his hand, leather-wrapped hilt fitting against his palm like it's always been there, like it's never left, like _he_ never left. He's still there, still crawling in the blood and filth before the empty Throne, he just does it now in a shiny new meatsuit. Just like Erica said, no one can tell the difference. Maybe there's no difference to tell. Maybe--

"Dean?"

He jerks around, searching the empty balcony. Frowning, he goes back inside and sees Cas sitting up in bed, one hand rubbing restlessly against an upraised knee. 

"Hey." Closing the door again, he pulls the curtain shut against the cold, then remembers and opens it enough for Cas to have a good view outside. "Did I wake you up?" 

Cas frowns blearily from behind a fall of disastrous bangs; it's goddamn adorable. "I wasn't asleep." 

"You were snoring, dude." 

"I was waiting...never mind." Still frowning, he reaches to turn on the lamp and loops an arm around his knees before his gaze abruptly sharpens. "What do you have in your hand?" 

Dean freezes, but looking down, he sees his fingers are clenched around the prescription bottle. Right. "Sorry, I just--I guess I forgot to put it down." 

"Vera gave it to me when I went to the infirmary before returning to Headquarters," Cas says. "She's currently assisting Dolores with other patients and will be spending the night there when she's done."

Dean remembers the open curtain as he drops the bottle on the crate by the bed. "Did you need it tonight?" 

"Vera insisted I take one before going to bed," Cas replies, which is an answer, sure, just not to the question he actually asked. Or maybe it is. "How is Manuel?"

"Mercedes came off shift when I left," he answers mechanically, wondering what Vera saw that worried her. "He seemed better, but again, Mercedes."

"Good." Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Dean toes off his boots, but there's a sense of unreality that he can't shake off, like everything's just an inch off where it should be. "Dean?"

He jerks, almost ripping his last pair of socks. "What?" Christ, he used to be better at this. "Sorry, distracted." 

"I noticed." Shoving the covers back, Cas scoots closer. "What's wrong?"

"Christ, what do you think?" he snaps. "Better question: what _isn't_? Where the _hell_ have you been?"

Cas freezes, and that, friends, is what it looks like to sucker punch someone with less than twenty words. Downstairs, Joe is drinking away the knowledge Dean Winchester isn't any better than the team leaders, than Erica; Vera's already figured out that between Dean Mark I and Mark II there's no difference at all. The proof is in the morgue, the infirmary, in Naresh's custody, rotting outside Ichabod's walls, screaming in Hell, and buried somewhere in Chitaqua, the ashes from every death on patrol and the ashes of the man who taught hunters how to be better monsters than anything they would ever hunt.

Cas starts to withdraw. "Don't," Dean whispers: _I think I'm going crazy. Something's wrong, and I can't remember what it is. I can't even remember why I think something's wrong._ "Sorry. I just--a fight with Joe. Did that earlier today with Vera, so figured add in you, got a complete set."

Cas nods, but that doesn't mean much; he's also exhausted, just got woke up by his crazy partner, is taking scripts for their actual intended therapeutic use, and burning a magic candle. This close, he can see the violet shadows beneath red-rimmed eyes, and hey, maybe he could stop thinking about himself for a few fucking seconds.

"What did you and Joseph argue about?" Cas asks, voice carefully neutral.

"Later." He reaches for Cas's face and tilts it in the candlelight, almost embarrassingly grateful when Cas stills but doesn't pull away. "Same question you asked me, and yeah, you can tell me to fuck myself."

Cas tries to look away, but Dean tightens his hold. "I'm just tired, that's all. It's been a long day already and hardly started."

"Tell me about it." He brushes back the dark hair, and for some reason, that makes Cas relax. "Mind if I join you or should I find a couch tonight?"

"Do you know where I can find a space heater?"

"Nope."

"Then your company would be very much appreciated. It's very cold." Leaning closer, Cas brushes cool, dry lips against his before abruptly pushing him back. "Change, please. Street clothes do not belong in bed."

Dean raises his eyebrows.

"Classical conditioning. You have only yourself to blame," Cas says mockingly, and Dean grins in relief, sliding out of bed and stripping quickly, finding sweatpants and a long-sleeve t-shirt waiting for him at the foot of the bed, along with socks. It makes his throat tight.

Climbing back into bed, he shoves back the blankets and reaches for Cas, kissing the surprised curve of his mouth. It's supposed to be a tease, but something knotted tight within him loosens at the taste of him, the low, breathless sound of Cas's laughter against his lips. Rolling on his side, he strokes his thumbs over the high cheekbones against the grain of the thick stubble.

"I should have been with you. At the mortuary." Cas opens his mouth. "I know, but you shouldn't have had to deal with it alone. Two weights, I get it, but this was like a--a two-weights situation in the same place." Cas shrugs, the blue eyes flickering away, which Dean's tentatively categorized as a hill Cas may or may not want to die on; let's find out. "Want to talk about it?"

He shakes his head, hair falling forward to hide his expression. "Joseph reported to you hourly...." 

He reaches to push the dark hair back, tucking it behind Cas's ear, unable to stop himself; this is still so new, that he can do that after wanting to for so long, since before he understood what it was that he wanted. Cas leans into the touch; this part, at least, is new for Cas, too. "Tell me."

"When I had my duties," Cas says softly, breathed like a secret between them, "I thought of only what came next. Then I was done--at least, Joseph said so--and now I can't seem to think at all. Every time I try, I remember Gary is dead, and so is Andy." He lets out a shaky breath. "I wish I hadn't disciplined Gary for the incident with the condiments in the mess," he says in a rush. "Yes, it was psychologically traumatic for witnesses, but no one was physically injured, so why did it matter? It's ridiculous; why on earth did I care so much about sanitation and mental scarring? Humans are very psychologically resilient."

"Typical." It's not hard to see where this is going. "Alicia."

"She died." There's something raw in Cas's voice that reminds him of watching Cas bent over Alicia's body. "I watched her die. I didn't care if she shot me or anyone else; I just wanted her alive. The rest was details."

He nods; that really does rearrange your priorities fast.

"We talked," Cas adds. "In the infirmary before...everything."

"How'd that go?"

"I don't know." Not a surprise. "I was angry. I'm _still_ angry, and I haven't forgiven her. But--what she did....it should matter more than it does." 

He's not sure he ever seriously thought this would go any other way. Sure, not this sequence of events--Christ, who could--but Cas as a practicing junkie couldn't even manage to avoid half-adopting a traumatized teenager. For fuck's sake, he got between Erica and _Crowley_ and she organized his goddamn attempted assassination. Cas _sucks_ at being a nihilistic asshole when it's more than cosmetic. "It's different when they're your own."

Cas searches his face. "Is that what it is?"

"There's a reason Justice wears a blindfold."

"That was Fortuna," Cas corrects him. "Justitia never wore a blindfold; how could she render judgement without clear sight? She took the advice of her lover, Prudentia, who was reason and knowledge, and who judged actions within the context that they were taken." Seeing Dean's carefully crafted blank expression, he roll his eyes. "Not just what you did, but why you did it and the circumstances surrounding it, and that doesn't work anymore; I'm just indulging you."

Dean grins, admitting nothing. "Why was Fortuna blindfolded?"

"Because she played favorites, and it caused problems." Dean snickers at Cas's annoyed expression before it melts into something darker. "Have you decided what to do about Alicia?"

It's weird, how the most obvious question in the world still seems to come out of nowhere. "No," he admits. "You get I'm not deciding anything without you, right?"

Cas doesn't answer immediately. "Alicia thinks she'll be leaving Chitaqua."

It's the perfect solution, maybe because it's the only solution; she can even say it's voluntary for reasons whatever and no one has to know why. Even every other unconfessed assassin, who--as long as they keep their mouths shut--go about their lives. Unless she decides to give him the names of every living assassin still in Chitaqua, and sure, it's possible--anything's possible--but he's not counting on it.

It's the perfect solution because it's the easiest, and fuck knows, it's not like they get anything easy.

"You're aware that Kyle is blaming Micah for Gary's death and Mark's injuries," Cas says abruptly, and Dean's almost grateful for the change of subject except the subject is goddamn Kyle.

"Yeah." He strokes down Cas's back, feeling the muscles tense beneath his fingers. "Look, we still have to question Kat--"

"I see no reason to question Kat, other than what Naresh requires, of course. She'll say the same if she has any sense. I doubt Kat will confess, in any case."

Dean stiffens. "You think Kat did it? Did Jeremy or Joelle--"

"No, but that's beside the point. It doesn't matter," Cas interrupts. "Who made the shot is immaterial; Kyle, Kat, Micah, and Cathy all had drawn weapons in that hall, and you don't draw a gun unless you mean to use it. Which specific gun the bullet came from is irrelevant; they're all guilty of murder." Cas hesitates for a moment, then pushes himself upright to look at Dean. "If they insist, Carol can be left to Ichabod's justice, but Kyle and Kat should return to Chitaqua with us."

"Why?"

"They should have a hearing, of course, and they may offer a defense, but unless there are special circumstances we're not aware of--that the geas is showing new and unexpectedly convoluted symptoms that includes terrible plans and actual mind control--they should both be executed."

Sitting up, Dean shoves a pillow against the headboard and settles against it; it's that kind of conversation. "Kyle didn't know the real plan."

"That only makes Kyle's crime greater. Kat was trading a prisoner of Chitaqua to his lover for personal gain, but Kyle believed he was involved in a conspiracy to kidnap a human being under Chitaqua's protection and deliver them to what we were protecting him from, a demon."

No hunter could even think that without a flinch, and Dean's no different. "Yeah."

"I would have put a bullet in Micah's head without regret," Cas continues. "I would have agreed to exile him outside the wall with ten days' worth of rations, a gun, and a knife, though he certainly didn't deserve the mercy. He didn't deserve to be unwillingly traded to a demon, however; no one deserves that. That it wasn't true is irrelevant; it was true for Kyle. He didn't merely betray us; he betrayed everything we are." 

Three weeks ago, Dean executed two people outside the Ichabod's daycare who sold out fifteen kids--and an entire town--to demons and doesn't regret a thing. You can't be a hunter and do what those people, what Kyle did; he's not sure you can do that and still be _people_.

"Yeah," he says finally; he doesn't regret this, either. "I know."

Cas relaxes. "I don't know how easy it will be to get Ichabod's agreement."

Yeah, they're gonna need to talk to Joe. If Joe ever speaks to him again, and yeah, not thinking about that right now. "We'll figure it out," he says quickly. "Still not sure what the hell Kat was doing."

Cas raises an eloquently incredulous eyebrow (he's reading eyebrows now, what the hell happened to him?).

"All she had to do was rappel down the wall and walk to a crossroad and we'd never know until we heard the screaming from the mortuary. Carol needed her and Cathy, yeah, but Kat didn't need them, so why?"

"She didn't," Cas answers. "She needed to get out of our Headquarters and then Ichabod without being stopped or shot by Ichabod's patrol, buy herself enough time to deal with Erica--and for that matter, not be killed by her or another demon instead--and be allowed back inside after she was done to retrieve Andy. And then escape with him, of course, though how she planned to accomplish that part is still a mystery I have no desire to solve. Carol's plan gave her everything she needed, and that plan required Carol's participation. What happened to everyone else was of no interest to her."

"Cathy to separate her watchers," Dean says slowly. "Kyle as muscle, and Jeremy--and bonus Joelle--as hostages to get her back inside the walls when she was done?" 

"Or some variation with those key elements, yes. During the planning, Carol and Kat must have made provision for Micah remaining in Naresh's custody, and Kyle would be needed to help with Naresh's people as well as deal with Kat's team. She couldn't have hoped to win against all three of her team in that room, but she and Kyle together could handle two."

Dean's not so sure about that. He remembers Sarah restraining Kat after Andy's death; unlike Drew, she wasn't fucking around keeping Kat down, and she wouldn't have hesitated to knock Kat out if she did anything she didn't like. If Sarah had been the one to go downstairs to talk to Cathy, there's no way Kyle could have gotten her from behind. He watched Sarah from Ichabod's walls, and a woman who could sneak up on a Hellhound and beat it almost to death after working out its position from at least twenty feet away using Cas and fucking _snow_ isn't someone you could sneak up on. She'd have had Kyle on the ground before he could so much as raise that goddamn gun to hit her. Unless he shot her in the back, of course; two years and change fighting together means he probably knows better than Dean what will work and what won't. 

If Sarah had been in that room, though....Kat wasn't stupid, or at least not _that_ stupid. She'd know she'd only get one try at Sarah and it would have to count. And Sarah--he remembers her expression when she came to him about Kat's behavior. Just a split-second hesitation because Kat was team--that would have done it.

"Joelle was a very useful bonus," Cas adds, almost casually. "It not only gave them two hostages to use to negotiate with on their return, but prevented Jeremy from--doing anything imprudent."

Without a gun to Joelle's head, nothing would have stopped Jeremy from going for his when Phil went down. And then--shooting to disable instead of kill is a lot harder than it looks in the movies, and he doubts Kyle's reaction to being drawn on would be anything but lethal.

(Without that gun to Joelle's head, Kyle, Kat, Carol, Cathy, and Micah would all be dead at Zero, Erica's career as a demon would be over with Ruby's knife in her chest, and Alicia wouldn't have learned how it felt to die. He doubts Cas would have waited any longer than getting a clear shot, and knowing Cas's range, that could have been way before the jeep even stopped. 

After that....he can live without wondering too hard about that.)

"Jeremy did good," Dean says, because it's true, and because it takes the set expression off Cas's face. "He and Joelle with that demon...."

"Maimouna was impressed as well." Almost immediately, the amusement fades into something that makes him wonder about the time between Cas and Alicia arriving at Headquarters to an empty lobby and reaching Zero; that must have felt like years. "Under the circumstances, Maimouna requested that Jeremy stay with her and Joelle tonight. With Vera, Joseph, and I unavailable and the rest of the militia on alert, she thought I'd prefer Jeremy wasn't alone."

"Who'd you send over there with them?" There's no goddamn way Cas let Jeremy out of this building without at least--

"Maimouna's floor has several empty rooms, and Lee's team volunteered; they said they could sleep there as well as here."

An entire team, should have guessed. "Was that Joelle's first time?" Cas nods, and Dean adds her to his mental list; when she passes her eighteenth birthday, if she still wants to do this, she's in Amanda's next class. You can't teach people like her not to throw themselves between people and danger, so they're going to have to teach her how to survive it. "Good call. Easier to talk to someone her own age."

"Maimouna mentioned that," Cas says wryly. "I checked on them before I went off duty; Maimouna told me they played Gin Rummy with Kenjo, Devansh, and Marilee before they went to sleep. He'll report first thing in the morning."

Dean's just about to suggest sleep when Cas reaches out in a blur of motion--God, he never gets tired of seeing that--and catches his wrist. Turning his hand over, he frowns with professional concern at Dean's fucked-up hand. "I should have checked it when you arrived."

"It's not your job--"

"I'd like to see you try to fire me," Cas interrupts. "Sit up."

Dean seriously thinks about ignoring him--he's sick and tired of goddamn hand drama--but a cramp ripples through the palm, jerking his hand half-closed and killing whatever he had of plausible deniability at birth (and newsflash: he didn't have much anyway). 

"Fine," he says ungraciously.

"Thank you," Cas says with exactly the right amount of sincerity to broadcast 'you're an idiot' to anyone in range of his voice. "Extend your fingers--don't force it." Dean complies, relieved he's at over three-quarters extension before he can feel the strain. "Make a fist--slowly." He gets why Cas said slowly; the faint tremble he hadn't even noticed is obvious now, and he wonders how long it's been doing that. Cradling the back of his hand, Cas slides his thumb from heel to the first joint of his middle finger. "Just overuse, but that couldn't be helped today. Any cramping?"

"Yeah. A little."

Cas slides off the bed. "Give me a moment, and I'll get the lotion."

Dean stares at his clenched hand, listening to Cas go through their bag and the pad of his feet on the floor as he returns. The bed dips, and Cas settles cross-legged beside him, reaching for his hand again and spreading it on his knees. He remembers what Cas said last night; it's not just his job but a privilege. This is something Cas _wants_ to do and plans to keep doing. Like sharing a bed and a cabin and that thing people call a life.

Cas saw what he did to Grant, listened to him talk about nightmares of Hell, and that's nothing to what he must have seen when he met Dean there himself, nothing to the memories he took before bringing Dean back to earth. He's still here; he still _wants_ to be. 

"There's nothing in my hand." The words cling to his tongue, try to stick between his teeth, but he gets them out there.

Pouring lotion in his palm to warm it--and that's just, he just _does that_ , warms up the lotion first, doesn't even think about it--Cas nods. "There's not, no." Reaching for Dean's hand, he starts at the center of the palm right where the muscles cramp worst.

"Sometimes, there is," Dean whispers. "I just--just can't see it."

"A knife?"

Dean's head snaps up so fast he almost pulls something. "How did you...." He tries again. "How?"

"You told me," he answers as the tips of his fingers work over Dean's knuckles. "In Volunteer Services, when the geas broke and you thought that you killed those four people, you told me you could still feel it in your hand. When I asked what, you said 'your knife'." Cas glances up. "You said 'sometimes'; it's not constant?"

"No." He stares at his hand very hard. Either Cas is hiding utter horror better than anyone ever (not impossible) while doing a fucking expert massage or-- "There's more. At Volunteer Services, I thought you were dead."

"Yes, seeing me alive was enough to break the geas," Cas agrees. "Useful--

"Yeah, good job being alive. The dead woman--before I catalyzed, I kept seeing your face while I was getting people out."

"Interesting," Cas says in the voice of scientific curiosity. "You resisted catalyzation. That may be another reason we have had so comparatively few actual incidents; there is resistance, and it may need time to wear down--"

"Yeah, really interesting," Dean interrupts desperately. "The last time, there was a gunshot--at least, I thought I heard one--and when I saw you--the body-- I _knew_ they'd shot you, that they killed you." Cas nods. "Like every other time."

That checks the nod. "What other times?"

"Those nightmares I was having before we came to Ichabod, to start. Where I'd get to the cabin right after the team leaders killed you and Vera, before I could stop them."

Cas's head comes up sharply. "What?"

"It was different every night--how you died, I mean--but I always got there too late, after you and Vera were dead." Fuck, just get it out there. "It changed when we got to Ichabod. Our first night here, after what happened in the street earlier, I dreamed about that. Mob of people killed you right there, and when I found you, you were dead."

"And after that?"

"They stopped. I mean, I don't remember any dreams after that." Cas's expression isn't reassuring here; he should work on that. "Cas?" 

"I don't...." Reaching for the lotion, Cas pours out more, then takes Dean's hand again. "That was what you wouldn't tell me you were dreaming about? My death, before you--before you were even _here_?"

Dean expected awkward (to understate the case) but not--whatever this is. "Dude, dreams are...yeah." 

"How long?"

"Months." Cas hands still for a split-second. "Not all the time, but since I found out about the team leaders--it's been on the roster, yeah." Strangely, not an improvement from torture dreams, either. "Cas?"

"Why didn't you tell me before--" Then, proving Cas has in fact grown as a person, he adds, "Yes, that might have felt rather awkward for you."

"'Honey, I'm dreaming of a thousand ways you die by bullet, wanna have sex?'" Dean says deliberately. "That's a serial killer's pick up line after they already have you in their goddamn dungeon-basement tied to a meat grinder or thresher or something, come on!"

"It's not as if you were dreaming of having sex with my bullet-ridden corpse," he says dismissively, to highlight where he seems to be having issues when it comes to the scale of 'normal'. Worse, Dean can see his point, which tells him nothing he wants to know about himself, thanks. "You said you were having those dreams before we came to Ichabod? And our first night here? Literally, you dreamed of--"

"You dying by mob on the asphalt of Ichabod, and no, I didn't fuck your corpse."

"And the knife? When did that start?"

"After Volunteer Services." Then he thinks about it. "Before, sometimes when I'd wake up, I'd feel like something should be there and wasn't, but it'd go away. Now, it's the opposite." He braces himself. "Look, I think I'm--"

"When was the last time you felt it?" Cas asks, getting that look on his face. _That_ look, the one that means Cas is thinking and fuck knows.

"A few minutes ago, on the balcony," he answers impatiently; Cas can do his thinking thing _later_. "Look, I gotta--"

"And it went away on its own?"

"No, I heard you yell for me and it stopped."

Cas frowns. "You heard me call for you?"

"Dude," he answers without thinking. "You cut right through the--" His tongue almost loses it, but the momentum of a sentence pushes it through, "--screaming."

Cas sits back. "Screaming," he says softly, almost to himself. "Of course: _'Can you hear it?'_ What else would it be?"

_Screaming_ ; that's what he's been hearing. Everyone that he tortured in Hell; of course that's it, of course it is. What else would it be?

"I should have asked for more details regarding how the game of 'telephone' works," Cas continues, resuming the massage before catching Dean's eye. "That's how the changes in the geas as it spreads was described to me."

"What?"

"The geas," Cas answers casually, and Dean's suddenly aware the cramps in his hand are gone and also, what the hell? "Dean?"

"I...." Telephone. "You think this is about the _geas_?"

"Obviously."

Obviously. "It can't be. This has been happening all the time since...." Wait.

"Volunteer Services?" He nods blankly. "That fits."

"How does it--"

"This afternoon, before I spoke to Alicia, I went to see Dolores regarding the other three catalyzed survivors from Volunteer Services. She let me observe Bushmaster, and she told me they kept asking one question--"

"'Can you hear it?'" He starts to ask why Cas didn't tell him before now, then realizes the obvious answer is 'when?', which hey, would be now. "Why?"

"In the interrogation room, Micah was acting--oddly--after you visited him. He was saying the same thing." Yeah, now that Cas mentioned it, he does remember something like that. "Why did you have them turn the cameras off?"

"In case I needed to beat him up," Dean answers distractedly; what happened in that room? The way Micah was looking at him.... "What do you think? In case he said anything about Alicia. He was careful before--no idea why--but I couldn't risk it. What does that have to do--"

"Of course he was careful," Cas says with a snort. "Casting suspicion on her was to try and get her to see him, but he assumed--for some inexplicable reason--that if he accused her outright, you'd believe him without question and kill her out of hand. That would have spoiled his plan, such as it was."

Not that inexplicable. Might have worked with the other Dean, too. "Okay, back to Micah and going to the infirmary after: why'd you think they were connected?"

"Micah's behavior made me curious, especially in light of Remington's suicide. In theory, he could have picked up the geas from anyone, but he only started exhibiting that behavior after you visited him. As it turns out, the four catalyzed survivors from Volunteer Services acted oddly as well when they finally woke up."

Dean licks his lips. "How are they doing? The other three?"

Cas hesitates. "Currently, Dolores is administering increasing doses of thorazine to keep them from injuring themselves or others, but--"

"If they can remember what I did to them? Not a surprise."

"Dean, you can't actually kill someone with a hallucination, no matter what you may think. Barring heart failure or a stroke, of course--"

"I didn't kill them." Cas frowns, and Dean adds deliberately, "Like I didn't kill Grant."

Cas finishes off at his wrist, shifting to stroke up the palm to each finger, searching for tension, before lowering Dean's hand. He doesn't let go, though, thumb stroking absently against the center of Dean's palm.

"They wouldn't have survived it," he adds in the spirit of getting it out there. "If it'd been real. On earth, anyway." In the Pit, he'd just have been getting started. "It was me. Not the geas--it was _me_."

"It was you," Cas agrees. "Just as it was me in the mess, just as it was them in Volunteer Services with you, just as it has been for everyone who was catalyzed and survived. I may find you unique and a wonder to behold, but the geas is far more egalitarian. It doesn't care you're Dean Winchester; it only cares what it can do with the material that is you, and what part it can exploit most easily. Just like everyone else."

Searching Cas face, all he gets is vague annoyance. "You're saying--" He hears his voice break but can't really care right now. "You're saying I'm not that special."

"Exactly. The geas cannot work with anything that is not already there in the human mind; all it can do is activate and emphasize one tiny part to the detriment of the rest," Cas says. "The geas is playing telephone when it spreads; the iteration that those from Volunteer Services and Micah had, I suspect, is the same as the one you have now."

"But I broke it!"

"You did," Cas says. "Those four did as well, probably from sheer shock they were alive and not horribly mutilated."

"Thanks, Cas."

"You're welcome," he answers, innocent of irony. "But everyone else--both those still inside the room and those you sent outside--were still affected until we dropped the number below threshold. We were in the room long enough for you to contract it again from them or any of us, thus beginning a new iteration of telephone, and to pass it to whoever at that moment did not have their own version of the geas already. Or who had just had theirs broken. Fortunately, we removed you before threshold was reached and Naresh released you to Chitaqua before anyone else could be infected--"

"How can you be sure of that?" Right. "No other crazy people asking if anyone else can hear it." Cas nods, and Dean goes over the timeline; yeah, that makes sense. "Okay, so I'm the source of this version; what does that mean? Why are they going crazy?"

"The answer to a question we didn't know we could even ask," Cas answers, looking so weirdly pleased that Dean's almost happy about becoming a proto-demon on earth, oh God, _what_? "How stupid of me: it's not random."

"What's not random?"

"The geas," he answers. "It's not random, those fears do have something in common; it's selecting the most recent strong expression of fear--as in the most recent you _remember_ \--and using that."

"You mean whatever might have scared you last?" Holy shit, that makes sense. "Literally that could be anything, even a guy walking up behind you and making you jump?"

"Or even the last thing you worried about before contracting the geas, provided you were very, very worried. That's why it works even with incredibly inane fears that it shouldn't be able to exploit; it's using your own memory to provide your brain context and to build realistic hallucinations as needed. The last thing you were afraid of before you touched the first map--" 

"--was you being shot." Yeah, that makes sense. "This version...."

The original geas said 'be afraid of this; run'. The geas was designed for human fear, though; it wasn't meant to cover what the rack did. The human mind didn't even have context for it where pain was probably the smallest part; if the geas carried even a little of that.... 

"That's all you can hear in Hell: screaming," Dean breathes. "You can't run away; no matter where you go or how fast you run, you're always right there." Cas nods. "That's why she went for the thorazine; that's an anti-psychotic. It's not the geas that's making them crazy; it's what I--"

"It's the geas," Cas says quietly. "Exploiting that tiny part, as its instructions told it to. The creators--as is their wont--didn't consider what adding in the memories and fears of someone who'd actually been to Hell would do, much less what exposing humans on earth to--that...."

"Torture by Alistair's apprentice," Dean says. "Just say it. I was there; I remember." 

" _That_ ," Cas says firmly. "Normally I'd admit this isn't something that the creators could have foreseen, but they foresaw literally nothing, so they don't get the benefit of the doubt."

"I'm hearing screaming, I feel that goddamn knife...it's happening to me, too. Just slower. Except what I'm afraid of--"

"--is becoming a demon, yes, that much was obvious," Cas interrupts. "It's a hallucination. It's not real--"

"If I can't tell the difference, does it _matter_?"

Cas regards him seriously for way too long, then nods, like he just came to life-changing decision. "If you can't tell the difference, ask me."

The frantic hamster-wheel that passes for thought in Dean's head grinds to an abrupt halt. "What?"

"Ask me," Cas answers like that's supposed to make sense, adding, "It's not as if I'll lie to you."

There is so much wrong with that he has to work on where to even start. "And if you say it's real? Hallucination you or real you, I mean, what about that? How will I know?"

"If you're not soaking wet from holy water and covered in rock salt when I say it, you can take as a given it's not really me. Unless you're standing in a devil's trap, of course. Check for that."

Of course. "Simple. I guess."

"But not easy, I know."

"What's going to happen to them?" Dean asks before the silence can stretch too long. "The ones from Volunteer Services. Are they...." He's not sure what goes there.

"After observing them, I recommended that we place them in an artificial coma. Dolores agreed."

Not what he expected. "What do you think that'll do?"

"At minimum, it will keep them from hurting themselves, which has become something of a difficulty, as they're becoming resistant to thorazine--or rather, the geas is adapting to resist it," Cas answers. "Now that I have a better idea of what they are experiencing, it may also help preserve their sanity. The subconscious brain handles dissonance extremely well; dreams can do anything, after all."

"Dreams of being in Hell." He knows all about that. "Oh yeah, that's better."

"In this case, that's true; you're the proof." Dean wants to argue that, but relatively speaking (to needing thorazine) that's true. "Hypnotics also cause amnesia; whatever happens, they probably won't remember it."

"Yeah," Dean says, hoping his voice isn't too rough: _probably_. "When is it happening?"

"Dawn, but with everything that happened today....." He makes a face. "I asked Dolores to inform me so I could be there and left the front desk with orders to inform me immediately if she sends word. To help Chess move the patients."

Yeah, that's why Cas wants to be there: muscle. (Though yeah, that, too.) "I'll--"

"If your next words are 'go with you', no." He stiffens, but Cas just raises an eyebrow to show how unimpressed he is. "This is not merely a request from your second in command; it is an ultimatum from your partner. You may choose which one you're offering your acquiescence, but you will not be there."

"Cas--"

"It's not your fault." Dean looks away. "Dean, I can't stop you from making yourself miserable, but I can make it difficult enough that you'll have to expend an extraordinary amount of effort to manage it and therefore be far too tired to do it very effectively."

He can't exactly work out what that means, but a yawn brings the conversation to a halt. Cas's mouth twitches, and Dean doesn’t bother fighting it; he's goddamn _tired_. "Fine, whatever, you ready to sleep?"

"Yes," Cas answers, blowing out the candle and reaching to turn off the lamp as Dean double-checks the curtain is still open enough for a view of outside. 

Abruptly, the bed shifts and Dean's sinking into the mattress under the weight of Cas, who stares at him thoughtfully from three inches away. Not that he objects or anything, but-- "What?"

"Human Behavior 101," says Cas seriously, bracing an elbow beside Dean's head. "I have a question."

"Shoot," he says (maybe not even metaphorically).

"Even when you're stupid beyond words--"

"Hey," he interrupts because he's kind of got to.

"--I find it both maddening and charming." The blue gaze sharpens, like he can still see Dean's soul, like there's something there worth seeing. Like-- "Why is that, pray tell?"

He licks dry lips. "Dude, you're crazy."

"Of course." Cas cups his face, callused fingers curving to fit the angle of his cheek, his jaw, then leans close enough that Dean can feel him breathe. "You like that about me."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: explicit involuntary force-feeding, suicide ideation, discussion of suicide.

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